BERK  ?.  I  E  Y\ 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF     I 
CALIFORNIA/ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
JOHN  DEBO  GALLOWAY 

AND  HIS  DAUGHTER 
BERTHA  GALLOWAY  FOSTER 


RIVERSIDE  EDITION 

I.  A   WEEK    ON    THE    CONCORD  AND    MERR!- 

MACK   RIVERS. 
II.  WALDEN;  OR,   LIFE  IN  THE  WOODS. 

III.  THE  MAINE  WOODS. 

IV.  CAPE  COD. 

V.   EARLY  SPRING   IN   MASSACHUSETTS. 
VI.  SUMMER.    With  a  Map  of  Concord. 
VII.  AUTUMN. 
VIII.  WINTER. 
IX.  EXCURSIONS. 
X.  MISCELLANIES.     With  a  Biographical  Sketch 

by  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

XI.   FAMILIAR   LETTERS.     Edited,   with  an   Intro 
duction  and  Notes,  by  FRANK  B.  SANBORN. 
THE  SAME.     Riverside  Pocket  Edition,    n  vols.     Flex 
ible  leather. 

NOTES  ON  NEW  ENGLAND  BIRDS.  Edited  by 
F.  H.  ALLEN. 

WALDEN  ;  OR,  LIFE  IN  TWE  WOODS  Holiday 
Edition.  With  an  Introduction  by  BRADFORD  TORREY, 
and  28  full-page  photogravure  illustrations. 

THE  SAME.  Cambridge  Classics.  With  a  Biographical 
Sketch  by  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

THE  SAME.     Riverside  A  Idine  Series.    2  vols. 

THOREAU'S  THOUGHTS.  Selections  from  the  Writ 
ings  of  Henry  D.  Thoreau.  Edited  by  H.  G.  O.  BLAKB. 
With  Bibliography. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  Naw  YORK 


Edition 


THE  WRITINGS  OF 
HENRY   DAVID   THOREAU 

WITH  BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTIONS 
AND  FULL  INDEXES 

VOLUME   I 


A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

AND  MERRIMACK 

RIVERS 


BY 

HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
ftfcetffte  prcjtf  Cambciboe 


Copyright,  1867, 
BY  TICKffOR  AND  FIELDS. 

Copyright,  1893, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


PUBLISHERS'  ADVERTISEMENT 

Two  only  of  Thoreau's  books  were  published 
during  his  lifetime,  although  a  number  of  the 
papers  afterward  collected  into  volumes  were 
printed  by  him  in  magazines.  The  volumes 
succeeding  A  Week  on  the  Concord  and  Merri- 
mack  Rivers  and  Walden  were  composed  of 
papers  grouped  according  to  convenience  at  the 
time.  Later,  Mr.  H.  G.  O.  Blake  drew  from 
Thoreau's  manuscript  journals  the  four  volumes 
corresponding  to  the  seasons.  With  the  publi 
cation  of  Autumn  the  entire  series  of  Thoreau's 
works  acquires  a  certain  completeness,  and  the 
opportunity  therefore  arises  for  a  new  and  uni 
form  edition  of  his  writings  on  the  same  general 
plan  as  that  followed  with  the  works  of  Longfel 
low,  Hawthorne,  Lowell,  Emerson,  Whittier, 
and  Holmes. 

The  present  edition  contains  not  only  all  that 
has  heretofore  been  published  in  the  volumes 
under  Thoreau's  name,  but  papers  also  not  here 
tofore  included.  Since  it  has  been  necessary  to 
make  the  older  books  anew,  it  has  been  thought 
advisable  to  bring  the  groups  into  better  har- 


vi         PUBLISHERS'  ADVERTISEMENT 

mony.  A  Yankee  in  Canada,  therefore,  has 
been  grouped  under  the  head  of  Excursions^ 
and  the  miscellaneous  papers,  new  and  old,  have 
been  brought  into  one  volume,  to  which  also 
Mr.  Emerson's  biographical  sketch  is  prefixed. 
Wherever  there  are  interesting  facts  to  be  noted 
regarding  the  writings  they  are  presented  in 
Introductory  Notes.  Each  volume  is  provided 
with  a  separate  index,  and  a  General  Index  in 
the  tenth  volume  brings  together  references  to 
Thoreau's  scattered  observations.  Care  has 
been  taken  also  to  verify,  whenever  it  has  been 
possible,  the  many  poetical  quotations. 

Four  portraits,  each  a  distinct  contribution 
to  a  knowledge  of  Thoreau's  appearance,  accom 
pany  the  edition.  The  origin  of  each  is  ex 
plained  in  a  prefatory  note  to  the  volume  con 
taining  it. 

BOSTON  :  4  PARK  STREET, 
September,  1893. 


CONTENTS 


[The  sub-titles  under  each  division  are  of  Thoreau's  poems  and  snatches 
of  verse  therein  included.] 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE         .        .        .        •       •       •        i* 

CONCORD  RIVER «  .  3 

"  The  respectable  folks  "  .....  8 

SATURDAY 15 

"  Ah,  'tis  in  vain  the  peaceful  din "  .  .  .  18 
"  Here  then  an  aged  shepherd  dwelt "  .  .  .19 
"  On  Ponkawtasset,  since  we  took  our  way  "  .  20 

SUNDAY 53 

"  An  early  unconverted  Saint "        ....        53 

"  Low  in  the  eastern  sky  "  .         .         .        .        .        .58 

"  Dong,  sounds  the  brass  in  the  east "  .        .        62 

*'  Greece,  who  am  I  that  should  remember  thee  "       .    68 
"  Some  tumultuous  little  rill "         ,        ...        .        77 

"  I  make  ye  an  offer "          .        .        .        .        .        .86 

"  Conscience  is  instinct  bred  in  the  house  "  .        94 

"Such  water  do  the  gods  distill"        .        .        .         .107 

"That  Phaeton  of  our  day"  .  .  .  .  .128 

MONDAY 151 

"  Though  all  the  fates  should  prove  unkind  "          .       189 
MOUNTAINS         .        .        .        .        .  .        .  212 

"  The  western  wind  came  lumbering  in "         .         .       224 
"  Then  idle  Time  ran  gadding  by  "     .        .        .        .  226 

"  Now  chiefly  is  my  natal  hour "      .        .        .        .      226 

RUMORS  FROM  AN  ^EOLIAN  HARP     ....  229 

"  Away !  away !  away !  away !  "  .  .  .  .  231 


viii  CONTENTS 

TUESDAY 233 

"  Ply  the  oars !  away !  away ! "  .  .  .  234 

"  Since  that  first  *  Away  !  away  1 '  "  .  .  .  .  248 

MIST 249 

"  Man's  little  acts  are  grand  " 279 

"  The  waves  slowly  beat " 284 

HAZE 284 

"  Where  gleaming-  fields  of  haze  "  .  .  .  .  290 
TRANSLATIONS  FROM  ANACREON  ....  298 
"  Thus,  perchance,  the  Indian  hunter  "  .  .  .  306 

WEDNESDAY 309 

THE  FISHER'S  BOY 317 

"  This  is  my  Carnac,  whose  unmeasured  dome  "  .  331 
rt  True  kindness  is  a  pure  divine  affinity  "  .  .  342 

SYMPATHY 343 

THE  ATLANTIDES 345 

"  My  love  must  be  as  free  " 369 

"  The  Good  how  can  we  trust  ?  "  .  .  .  .  371 
"  Nature  doth  have  her  dawn  each  day  "  .  .  .  375 
FRIENDS,  ROMANS,  COUNTRYMEN,  AND  LOVERS  .  379 
THE  INWARD  MORNING 388 

THURSDAY 393 

"  My  books  I  'd  fain  cast  off,  I  cannot  read  "  .  .  397 

FRIDAY ,  ...  441 

THE  POET'S  DELAY 453 

"  I  hearing  get  who  had  but  ears  "...  460 
"  Men  dig  and  dive  but  cannot  my  wealth  spend  "  .  462 

"  Salmon  Brook  " 463 

"  Oft,  as  I  turn  me  on  my  pillow  o'er  "...  474 
"  I  am  the  antumnal  sun  ".....  499 
"  A  finer  race  and  finer  fed  ".....  503 
"  I  am  a  parcel  of  vain  strivings  tied  "  .  .  .  506 
"  All  things  are  current  found  "  .  .  .  .512 

*#*  The  portrait  prefacing  this  volume  is  from  the  crayon 
by  S.  W.  Rowse  in  1854,  preserved  in  the  Public  Library  of 
Concord. 


A    WEEK  ON   THE  CONCORD  AND 
MERRIMACK  RIVERS 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

IT  was  in  August  and  September,  1839,  as 
the  chronicle  notes,  that  the  voyage  here  re 
corded  was  made.  Thoreau  was  just  past  his 
twenty-second  birthday ;  he  had  been  two  years 
out  of  college,  and  though  he  had  thus  far  printed 
nothing,  he  had  already,  four  years  before,  be 
gun  that  practice  of  noting  his  experience,  ob 
servation,  and  reflection  in  a  diary  which  he 
continued  through  life,  so  that  not  only  did  his 
journals  furnish  him  with  the  first  draft  of  what 
he  published  in  his  lifetime,  but  they  formed  a 
magazine  from  which,  after  his  death,  friendly 
editors  drew  successive  volumes. 

The  Week  is  much  more  than  a  mere  re 
production  of  his  journal  during  the  period 
under  consideration.  It  was  not  published  as  a 
book  until  1849,  ten  years  after  the  excursion 
which  it  commemorated;  but  in  its  final  form 
were  inclosed  many  verses  and  some  prose  pas 
sages  which  had  already  appeared  in  the  short- 


X  A    WEEK  ON   THE 

lived  historic  Tfie  Dial.  It  will  be  remem 
bered  that  Thoreau  was  not  only  a  contributor 
to  that  periodical  from  the  beginning,  but  for  a 
while  had  editorial  charge  of  it;  the  editing,  in 
deed,  seemed  to  be  handed  about  from  one  to 
another  of  the  circle  most  concerned  in  its  issue. 
Thus  in  the  first  number,  July,  1840,  appeared 
the  excursus  on  Aulus  Persius  Flaccus,  printed 
in  the  Week,  pp.  405-412.  So,  also,  his  poems 
on  Friendship  saw  the  light  first  in  the  second 
number  of  The  Dial,  and  there  also  appeared 
the  poems  The  Inward  Morning,  The  Poet's 
Delay,  Rumors  from  an  ^olian  Harp,  and 
others,  as  well  as  the  study  of  Anacreon,  with 
examples  in  translation.  It  is  easy  for  the 
reader  to  see  that  the  Week  is  Thoreau 's  com 
monplace  book  as  well  as  journal. 

He  was  living  in  his  hut  on  Walden  Pond 
when  he  edited  his  manuscripts  for  publication 
in  book  form,  and  Alcott  visiting  him  one  even 
ing  there  heard  him  read  some  passages  from 
the  work.  It  is  interesting  to  observe  how  im 
mediately  this  man  of  fine  instincts  perceived 
the  worth  of  what  had  as  yet  struck  his  ear 
only,  listening  as  a  friend.  "The  book,"  he 
writes  in  his  diary,  "is  purely  American,  fra 
grant  with  the  life  of  New  England  woods  and 
streams,  and  could  have  been  written  nowhere 
else.  Especially  am  I  touched  by  his  suffi- 


CONCORD  AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS    xi 

ciency  and  soundness,  his  aboriginal  vigor,  — - 
as  if  a  man  had  once  more  come  into  Nature 
who  knew  what  Nature  meant  him  to  do  with 
her;  Virgil  and  "White  of  Selborne,  and  Izaak 
Wnlfrmj  gfld  Yar>keg^settler  all  in  one.  I  came 
home  at  midnight  through  the  snowy  wood- 
paths,  and  slept  with  the  pleasing  dream  that 
presently  the  press  would  give  me  two  books 
to  be  proud  of,  —  Emerson's  Poems  and  Tho- 
reau's  Week."* 

This  was  written  in  March,  1847,  and  Tho- 
reau  was  probably  just  about  to  try  the  publish 
ers,  if  his  manuscript  were  not  even  now  resting 
in  his  hut  from  one  of  its  journeys.  For  in  a 
letter  to  Emerson,  at  that  time  in  England, 
written  November  14,  1847,  Thoreau  says,  "I 
suppose  you  will  like  to  hear  of  my  book,  though 
I  have  nothing  worth  writing  about  it.  Indeed, 
for  the  last  month  or  two,  I  have  forgotten  it, 
but  shall  certainly  remember  it  again.  Wiley 
&  Putnam,  Munroe,  the  Harpers,  and  Crosby  & 
Nichols,  have  all  declined  printing  it  with  the 
least  risk  to  themselves;  but  Wiley  &  Putnam 
will  print  it  in  their  series,  and  any  of  them 
anywhere,  at  my  risk.  If  I  liked  the  book  well 
enough,  I  should  not  delay;  but  for  the  present 
I  am  indifferent.  I  believe  this  is,  after  all, 

1  A.  Bronson  Alcott ;  his  Life  and  Philosophy.  By  F.  B. 
Sanborn  and  William  T.  Harris,  p.  446. 


xii  A    WEEK  ON  THE 

the  course  you  advised,  — to  let  it  lie."1  Ap 
parently  he  used  the  opportunity  of  having  it  by 
him  to  touch  it  up  now  and  then,  for  in  a  letter 
to  Mr.  J.  Elliot  Cabot,  written  in  March,  1848, 
he  says:  "My  book,  fortunately,  did  not  find  a 
publisher  ready  to  undertake  it,  and  you  can 
imagine  the  effect  of  delay  on  an  author's  esti 
mate  of  his  own  work.  However,  I  like  it  well 
enough  to  mend  it,  and  shall  look  at  it  again, 
directly  when  I  have  dispatched  some  other 
things."2  The  essay  on  Friendship  which  pre 
cedes  the  poem  Friends,  Romans,  Country 
men,  and  Lovers,  already  referred  to,  appears  to 
have  been  written  at  this  time,  for  Mr.  Alcott  in 
his  diary,  under  date  of  January  13,  1848, 
notes :  ' '  Henry  Thoreau  came  in  after  my  hours 
with  the  children,  and  we  had  a  good  deal  of 
talk  on  the  modes  of  popular  influence.  He 
read  me  a  manuscript  essay  of  his  on  Frien4^ 
shipv  which  he  had  just  written,  and  wmch  I 
thought  superior  to  anything  I  had  heard."3 

Apparently  Thoreau  was  convinced  of  the 
impossibility  of  persuading  any  publisher  to 
take  the  book  at  his  own  risk,  and  was  suffi 
ciently  confident  of  the  worth  of  the  volume  to 

1  The    Emerson  -  Thoreau   Correspondence  in    The   Atlantic 
Monthly,  June,  1892. 

2  Ibid. 

3  Henry  D.   Thoreau.      By  F.  B.  Sauborn  [American  Men 
of  Letters],  p.  304. 


CONCORD  AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  xni 

bear  the  expense  of  publication  himself,  al 
though  to  do  this  he  was  obliged  to  borrow 
money,  and,  since  the  book  did  not  meet  its  ex 
penses,  afterward  to  take  up  the  occupation  of 
surveying  in  order  to  cancel  his  obligation. 
The  book  was  published  by  James  Munroe  & 
Co.,  Boston  and  Cambridge,  apparently  in  the 
summer  of  1849.  Mr.  George  Kipley  wrote  a 
kindly  notice  of  it  in  The  Tribune,  and  James 
Russell  Lowell  reviewed  it  in  a  dozen  pages  in 
the  Massachusetts  Quarterly  Review  for  De 
cember  of  the  same  year.  With  his  own  cun 
ning  in  literary  art  he  quickly  divined  the  in 
terior  structure  of  the  Week.  "The  great 
charm,"  he  says,  "of  Mr.  Thoreau's  book  seems 
to  be  that  its  being  a  book  at  all  is  a  happy 
fortuity.  The  door  of  the  portfolio  cage  has 
been  left  open,  and  the  thoughts  have  flown  out 
of  themselves.  The  paper  and  types  are  only 
accidents.  The  page  is  confidential  like  a 
diary.  .  .  .  He  begins  honestly  enough  as  the 
Boswell  of  Musketaquid  and  Merrimack.  .  .  . 
As  long  as  he  continues  an  honest  Boswell,  his 
book  is  delightful,  but  sometimes  he  serves  his 
two  rivers  as  Hazlitt  did  Northcote,  and  makes 
them  run  Thoreau  or  Emerson  or  indeed  any 
thing  but  their  own  transparent  element.  .  .  » 
We  have  digressions  on  Boodh,  on  Aiiacreon 
(with  translations  hardly  so  good  as  Cowley), 


xiv  A   WEEK  ON  THE 

on  Persius,  on  Friendship,  and  we  know  not 
what.  We  come  upon  them  like  snags,  jolting 
us  headforemost  out  of  our  places  as  we  are  row 
ing  placidly  up  stream,  or  drifting  down.  Mr. 
Thoreau  becomes  so  absorbed  in  these  discus 
sions  that  he  seems  as  it  were  to  catch  a  crab 
and  disappears  uncomfortably  from  his  seat  at 
the  bow  oar.  We  could  forgive  them  all,  espe 
cially  that  on  Books  and  that  on  Friendship 
(which  is  worthy  of  one  who  has  so  long  com 
muned  with  Nature  and  with  Emerson),  we 
could  welcome  them  all  were  they  put  by  them 
selves  at  the  end  of  the  book.  But,  as  it  is, 
they  are  out  of  proportion  and  out  of  place  and 
mar  our  Merrimacking  dreadfully.  We  were 
bid  to  a  river-party,  — not  to  be  preached  at." 
After  distributing  praise  and  blame  over  the 
poetical  interludes,  Lowell  closes  his  review  with 
the  words:  "Since  we  have  found  fault  with 
what  we  may  be  allowed  to  call  worsification, 
we  should  say  that  the  prose  work  is  done  con 
scientiously  and  neatly.  The  style  is  compact, 
and  the  language  has  an  antique  purity  like 
wine  grown  colorless  with  age." 

In  spite  of  the  generous  reception  which  the 
book  had  thus  at  the  hands  of  men  like  Alcott, 
Ripley,  and  Lowell,  the  public  was  indifferent 
enough.  Thoreau  recounts  the  issue  of  the 
venture  with  grim  humor  in  an  entry  in  his 


CONCORD  AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  xv 

diary,  October  28,  1853,  after  the  book  had 
been  in  the  bookstores  for  four  years.  "  For  a 
year  or  two  past  my  publisher,  falsely  so  called, 
has  been  writing  from  time  to  time  to  ask  what 
disposition  should  be  made  of  the  copies  of  A. 
Week,  on  the  Concord  and  Merrimack  Rivers 
still  on  hand,  and  at  last  suggesting  that  he  had 
use  for  the  room  they  occupied  in  his  cellar. 
So  I  had  them  all  sent  to  me  here,  and  they 
have  arrived  to-day  by  express,  filling  the  man's 
wagon,  706  copies  out  of  an  edition  of  1000, 
which  I  bought  of  Munroe  four  years  ago,  and 
have  been  ever  since  paying  for,  and  have  not 
quite  paid  for  yet.  The  wares  are  sent  to  me 
at  last,  and  I  have  an  opportunity  to  examine 
my  purchase.  They  are  something  more  sub 
stantial  than  fame,  as  my  back  knows,  which 
has  borne  them  up  two  flights  of  stairs  to  a 
place  similar  to  that  to  which  they  trace  their 
origin. 

"Of  the  remaining  290  and  odd,  75  were 
given  away,  the  rest  sold.  I  have  now  a  library 
of  nearly  900  volumes,  over  700  of  which  I 
wrote  myself.  Is  it  not  well  that  the  author 
should  behold  the  fruits  of  his  labor?  My 
works  are  piled  up  on  one  side  of  my  chamber 
half  as  high  as  my  head,  my  opera  omnia.  This 
is  authorship,  these  are  the  work  of  my  brain. 
There  was  just  one  piece  of  good  luck  in  the 


Kvi  A   WEEK  ON  THE 

venture.  The  unbound  were  tied  up  by  the 
printer  four  years  ago  in  stout  paper  wrappers, 
and  inscribed,  — 

"H.  D.  Thoreau, 

Concord  River. 

50  cops., 

so  Munroe  had  only  to  cross  out  '  River '  and 
write  'Mass.,'  and  deliver  them  to  the  express 
man  at  once.  I  can  see  now  what  I  write  for, 
the  result  of  my  labors.  Nevertheless,  in  spite 
of  this  result,  sitting  beside  the  inert  mass  of 
my  works,  I  take  up  my  pen  to-night  to  record 
what  thought  or  experience  I  may  have  had, 
with  as  much  satisfaction  as  ever.  Indeed,  I 
believe  that  this  result  is  more  inspiring  and 
better  for  me  than  if  a  thousand  had  bought  my 
wares.  It  affects  my  privacy  less  and  leaves 
me  freer."  l 

We  have  quoted  from  the  judgments  of 
Alcott  and  Lowell  on  the  book  because  one 
is  curious  to  know  how  the  contemporaries  of 
Thoreau  regarded  his  work;  later  critics  have 
the  advantage  and  disadvantage  of  seeing  such 
writing  through  an  atmosphere  charged  with 
many  men's  breathing  of  criticism  and  appre 
ciation.  Lowell  himself,  when  he  returned  to 
Thoreau  sixteen  years  later,  had  in  a  measure 

1  Autumn :  from  the  Journal  of  Henry  D.  Thoreau,  pp.  163, 
104. 


CONCORD  AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  xvn 

re-formed  his  appreciation.  But,  after  all,  no 
judgment  of  an  author  is  quite  so  interesting  as 
that  which  the  author  himself  passes,  even 
though  one  has  to  correct  this  estimate  by  other 
observations  on  the  author  and  his  work.  At 
any  rate,  Thoreau  shall  be  the  last  here  to  com 
ment  on  this  book :  — 

"I  thought  that  one  peculiarity  of  my  'Week  ' 
was  its  hypsethral  character,  to  use  an  epithet 
applied  to  those  Egyptian  temples  which  are 
open  to  the  heavens  above,  under  the  ether.  I 
thought  that  it  had  little  of  the  atmosphere  of 
the  house  about  it,  but  it  might  have  been 
written  wholly,  as  in  fact  it  was  to  a  great  ex 
tent,  out  of  doors.  It  was  only  at  a  late  period 
in  writing  it,  as  it  happened,  that  I  used  any 
phrases  implying  that  I  lived  in  a  house  or  led 
a  domestic  life.  I  trust  it  does  not  smell  so 
much  of  the  study  and  library,  even  of  the 
poet's  attic,  as  of  the  fields  and  woods,  that  it  is 
a  hypaethral  or  unroofed  book,  lying  open  under 
the  ether,  and  permeated  by  it,  open  to  all 
weathers,  not  easy  to  be  kept  on  a  shelf." l 

l  Summer :  from  the  Journal  of  Henry  D.  Thoreau,  p.  261. 


A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD  AND 
MERKIMACK  RIVERS 


Where'er  thou  sail'st  who  sailed  with  me, 
Though  now  thou  climbest  loftier  mounts, 
And  fairer  rivers  dost  ascend, 
Be  thou  my  Muse,  my  Brother  — . 


I  am  bound,  I  am  bound,  for  a  distant  shore. 
By  a  lonely  isle,  by  a  far  Azore, 
There  it  is,  there  it  is,  the  treasure  I  seek, 
On  the  barren  sands  of  a  desolate  creek. 


I  sailed  up  a  river  with  a  pleasant  wind, 
New  lands,  new  people,  and  new  thoughts  to  find ; 
Many  fair  reaches  and  headlands  appeared, 
And  many  dangers  were  there  to  be  feared ; 
But  when  I  remember  where  I  have  been, 
And  the  fair  landscapes  that  I  have  seen, 
THOU  seemest  the  only  permanent  shore, 
The  cape  never  rounded,  nor  wandered  o'er. 


Fluminaque  obliquis  cinxit  declivia  ripis ; 
Qua$,  diversa  locis,  partim  sorbentur  ab  ipsa ; 
In  mare  perveniunt  partim,  campoque  recepta 
Liberioris  aquae  pro  ripis  litora  pulsant. 

He  confined  the  rivers  within  their  sloping  banks, 
Which  in  different  places  are  part  absorbed  by  the  earth, 
Part  reach  the  sea,  and  being  received  within  the  plain 
Of  its  freer  waters,  beat  the  shore  for  banks. 

OVID,  Met.  L  39. 


CONCORD  RIVER. 

••Beneath  low  hills,  In  the  broad  interval 
Through  which  at  will  our  Indian  rivulet 
Winds  mindful  still  of  sannup  and  of  squaw, 
Whose  pipe  and  arrow  oft  the  plough  unburies, 
Here,  in  pine  houses,  built  of  new-fallen  trees, 
Bupplanters  of  the  tribe,  the  farmers  dwell." 

EMEBSON. 

THE  Musketaquid,  or  Grass-ground  River, 
though  probably  as  old  as  the  Nile  or  Eu 
phrates,  did  not  begin  to  have  a  place  in  civil 
ized  history  until  the  fame  of  its  grassy  mea 
dows  and  its  fish  attracted  settlers  out  of  Eng 
land  in  1635,  when  it  received  the  other  but 
kindred  name  of  CONCORD  from  the  first  planta 
tion  on  its  banks,  which  appears  to  have  been 
commenced  in  a  spirit  of  peace  and  harmony. 
It  will  be  Grass-ground  River  as  long  as  grass 
grows  and  water  runs  here ;  it  will  be  Concord 
River  only  while  men  lead  peaceable  lives  on  its 
banks.  To  an  extinct  race  it  was  grass-ground, 
where  they  hunted  and  fished;  and  it  is  still 
perennial  grass-ground  to  Concord  farmers,  who 
own  the  Great  Meadows,  and  get  the  hay  from 
year  to  year.  "One  branch  of  it,"  according 


4  CONCORD  RIVER 

to  the  historian  of  Concord,  for  I  love  to  quote 
so  good  authority,  "rises  in  the  south  part  of 
Hopkinton,  and  another  from  a  pond  and  a 
large  cedar-swamp  in  Westborough,"  and  flow 
ing  between  Hopkinton  and  Southborough, 
through  Framingham,  and  between  Sudbury 
and  Wayland,  where  it  is  sometimes  called 
Sudbury  River,  it  enters  Concord  at  the  south 
part  of  the  town,  and  after  receiving  the  North 
or  Assabeth  River,  which  has  its  source  a  little 
farther  to  the  north  and  west,  goes  out  at  the 
northeast  angle,  and  flowing  between  Bedford 
and  Carlisle,  and  through  Billerica,  empties 
into  the  Merrimack  at  Lowell.  In  Concord,  it 
is  in  summer  from  four  to  fifteen  feet  deep, 
and  from  one  hundred  to  three  hundred  feet 
wide,  but  in  the  spring  freshets,  when  it  over 
flows  its  banks,  it  is  in  some  places  nearly  a 
mile  wide.  Between  Sudbury  and  Wayland 
the  meadows  acquire  their  greatest  breadth, 
and  when  covered  with  water,  they  form  a 
handsome  chain  of  shallow  vernal  lakes,  re 
sorted  to  by  numerous  gulls  and  ducks.  Just 
above  Sherman's  Bridge,  between  these  towns, 
is  the  largest  expanse ;  and  when  the  wind  blows 
freshly  in  a  raw  March  day,  heaving  up  the 
surface  into  dark  and  sober  billows  or  regular 
swells,  skirted  as  it  is  in  the  distance  with  alder- 
Bwamps  and  smoke-like  maples,  it  looks  like  a 


CONCORD  RIVER  5 

smaller  Lake  Huron,  and  is  very  pleasant  and 
exciting  for  a  landsman  to  row  or  sail  over. 
The  farm-houses  along  the  Sudbury  shore, 
which  rises  gently  to  a  considerable  height, 
command  fine  water  prospects  at  this  season. 
The  shore  is  more  flat  on  the  Wayland  side, 
and  this  town  is  the  greatest  loser  by  the  flood. 
Its  farmers  tell  me  that  thousands  of  acres  are 
flooded  now,  since  the  dams  have  been  erected, 
where  they  remember  to  have  seen  the  white 
honeysuckle  or  clover  growing  once,  and  they 
could  go  dry  with  shoes  only  in  summer.  Now 
there  is  nothing  but  blue-joint  and  sedge  and 
cut-grass  there,  standing  in  water  all  the  year 
round.  For  a  long  time,  they  made  the  most 
of  the  driest  season  to  get  their  hay,  working 
sometimes  till  nine  o'clock  at  night,  sedulously 
paring  with  their  scythes  in  the  twilight  round 
the  hummocks  left  by  the  ice ;  but  now  it  is  not 
worth  the  getting  when  they  can  come  at  it,  and 
they  look  sadly  round  to  their  wood-lots  and 
upland  as  a  last  resource. 

It  is  worth  the  while  to  make  a  voyage  up 
this  stream,  if  you  go  no  farther  than  Sudbury, 
only  to  see  how  much  country  there  is  in  the 
rear  of  us :  great  hills,  and  a  hundred  brooks, 
and  farm-houses,  and  barns,  and  haystacks, 
you  never  saw  before,  and  men  everywhere  ; 
Sudbury,  that  is  SoutJiborough  men,  and  Way- 


6  CONCORD  RIVER 

land,  and  Nine-Acre-Corner  men,  and  Bound 
Rock,  where  four  towns  bound  on  a  rock  in  the 
river,  Lincoln,  Wayland,  Sudbury,  Concord. 
Many  waves  are  there  agitated  by  the  wind, 
keeping  nature  fresh,  the  spray  blowing  in  your 
face,  reeds  and  rushes  waving;  ducks  by  the 
hundred,  all  uneasy  in  the  surf,  in  the  raw 
wind,  just  ready  to  rise,  and  now  going  off  with 
a  clatter  and  a  whistling  like  riggers  straight 
for  Labrador,  flying  against  the  stiff  gale  with 
reefed  wings,  or  else  circling  round  first,  with 
all  their  paddles  briskly  moving,  just  over  the 
surf,  to  reconnoitre  you  before  they  leave  these 
parts ;  gulls  wheeling  overhead,  muskrats  swim 
ming  for  dear  life,  wet  and  cold,  with  no  fire  to 
warm  them  by  that  you  know  of,  their  labored 
homes  rising  here  and  there  like  haystacks ;  and 
countless  mice  and  moles  and  winged  titmice 
along  the  sunny,  windy  shore ;  cranberries  tossed 
on  the  waves  and  heaving  up  on  the  beach, 
their  little  red  skiffs  beating  about  among  the 
alders ;  — such  healthy  natural  tumult  as  proves 
.the  jast  day  is  not  yet  at  hand.  And  there 
stand  all  around  the  alders,  and  birches,  and 
oaks,  and  maples  full  of  glee  and  sap,  holding 
in  their  buds  until  the  waters  subside.  You 
shall  perhaps  run  aground  on  Cranberry  Island, 
only  some  spires  of  last  year's  pipe-grass  above 
water  to  show  where  the  danger  is,  and  get  as 


CONCORD  RIVER  1 

good  a  freezing  there  as  anywhere  on  the  North 
west  Coast.  I  never  voyaged  so  far  in  all  my 
life.  You  shall  see  men  you  never  heard  of 
before,  whose  names  you  don't  know,  going 
away  down  through  the  meadows  with  long 
ducking-guns,  with  water-tight  boots  wading 
through  the  fowl-meadow  grass,  on  bleak,  win 
try,  distant  shores,  with  guns  at  half-cock ;  and 
they  shall  see  teal,  blue-winged,  green-winged, 
shelldrakes,  whistlers,  black  ducks,  ospreys, 
and  many  other  wild  and  noble  sights  before 
night,  such  as  they  who  sit  in  parlors  never 
dream  of.  You  shall  see  rude  and  sturdy,  ex 
perienced  and  wise  men,  keeping  their  castles, 
or  teaming  up  their  summer's  wood,  or  chop 
ping  alone  in  the  woods ;  men  fuller  of  talk  and 
rare  adventure  in  the  sun  and  wind  and  rain, 
than  a  chestnut  is  of  meat,  who  were  out  not 
only  in  '75  and  1812,  but  have  been  out  every 
day  of  their  lives ;  greater  men  than  Homer,  or 
Chaucer,  or  Shakespeare,  only  they  never  got 
time  to  say  so ;  they  never  took  to  the  way  of 
writing.  Look  at  their  fields,  and  imagine 
what  they  might  write,  if  ever  they  should  put 
pen  to  paper.  Or  what  have  they  not  written 
on  the  face  of  the  earth  already,  clearing,  and 
burning,  and  scratching,  and  harrowing,  and 
ploughing,  and  subsoiling,  in  and  in,  and  out 
and  out,  and  over  and  over,  again  and  again, 

I 


8  CONCORD  RIVER 

erasing  what  they  had  already  written  for  want 
of  parchment. 

As  yesterday  and  the  historical  ages  are  past, 
as  the  work  of  to-day  is  present,  so  some  flit 
ting  perspectives  and  demi -experiences  of  the 
life  that  is  in  nature  are  in  time  veritably 
future,  or  rather  outside  to  time,  perennial, 
young,  divine,  in  the  wind  and  rain  which 
never  die. 

The  respectable  folks,  — 

Where  dwell  they  ? 

They  whisper  in  the  oaks, 

And  they  sigh  in  the  hay  ; 

Summer  and  winter,  night  and  day, 

Out  on  the  meadow,  there  dwell  they. 

They  never  die, 

Nor  snivel  nor  cry, 

Nor  ask  our  pity 

With  a  wet  eye. 

A  sound  estate  they  ever  mend, 

To  every  asker  readily  lend ; 

To  the  ocean  wealth, 

To  the  meadow  health, 

To  Time  his  length, 

To  the  rocks  strength, 

To  the  stars  light, 

To  the  weary  night, 

To  the  busy  day, 

To  the  idle  play  ; 

And  so  their  good  cheer  never  ends, 

For  all  are  their  debtors,  and  ajl  their  friends. 

Concord  Kiver  is  remarkable  for  the  gentle 
ness  of  its  current,  which  is  scarcely  percepti- 


CONCORD  RIVER  9 

ble,  and  some  have  referred  to  its  influence  the 
proverbial  moderation  of  the  inhabitants  of 
Concord,  as  exhibited  in  the  Revolution,  and 
on  later  occasions.  It  has  been  proposed  that 
the  town  should  adopt  for  its  coat  of  arms  a 
field  verdant,  with  the  Concord  circling  nine 
times  round.  I  have  read  that  a  descent  of  ar 
eighth  of  an  inch  in  a  mile  is  sufficient  to  pro 
duce  a  flow.  Our  river  has,  probably,  very 
near  the  smallest  allowance.  The  story  is  cur 
rent,  at  any  rate,  though  I  believe  that  strict 
history  will  not  bear  it  out,  that  the  only  bridge 
ever  carried  away  on  the  main  branch,  within 
the  limits  of  the  town,  was  driven  upstream  by 
the  wind.  But  wherever  it  makes  a  sudden 
bend  it  is  shallower  and  swifter,  and  asserts  its 
title  to  be  called  a  river.  Compared  with  the 
other  tributaries  of  the  Merrimack,  it  appears 
to  have  been  properly  named  Musketaquid,  or 
Meadow  River,  by  the  Indians.  For  the  most 
part,  it  creeps  through  broad  meadows,  adorned 
with  scattered  oaks,  where  the  cranberry  is 
found  in  abundance,  covering  the  ground  like  a 
moss-bed.  A  row  of  sunken  dwarf  willows  bor 
ders  the  stream  on  one  or  both  sides,  while  at 
a  greater  distance  the  meadow  is  skirted  with 
maples,  alders,  and  other  fluviatilo  trees,  over 
run  with  the  grape-vine,  which  bears  fruit  in 
its  season,  purple,  red,  white,  and  other  grapes 


10  CONCORD  RIVER 

Still  farther  from  the  stream,  on  the  edge  of 
the  firm  land,  are  seen  the  gray  and  white 
dwellings  of  the  inhabitants.  According  to  the 
valuation  of  1831,  there  were  in  Concord  two 
thousand  one  hundred  and  eleven  acres,  or 
about  one  seventh  of  the  whole  territory,  in  mea 
dow;  this  standing  next  in  the  list  after  pas 
turage  and  unimproved  lands;  and,  judging  from 
the  returns  of  previous  years,  the  meadow  is 
not  reclaimed  so  fast  as  the  woods  are  cleared. 

Let  us  here  read  what  old  Johnson  says  of 
these  meadows  in  his  "  Wonder- Working  Provi 
dence,"  which  gives  the  account  of  New  Eng 
land  from  1628  to  1652,  and  see  how  matters 
looked  to  him.  He  says  of  the  Twelfth  Church 
of  Christ  gathered  at  Concord:  "This  town  is 
seated  upon  a  fair  fresh  river,  whose  rivulets 
are  filled  with  fresh  marsh,  and  her  streams 
with  fish,  it  being  a  branch  of  that  large  river 
of  Merrimack.  Allwifes  and  shad  in  their  sea 
son  come  up  to  this  town,  but  salmon  and  dace 
cannot  come  up,  by  reason  of  the  rocky  falls, 
which  causeth  their  meadows  to  lie  much  cov 
ered  with  water,  the  which  these  people,  to 
gether  with  their  neighbor  town,  have  several 
times  essayed  to  cut  through  but  cannot,  yet  it 
may  be  turned  another  way  with  an  hundred 
pound  charge  as  it  appeared."  As  to  their 
farming  he  says:  "Having  laid  out  their  estate 


CONCORD  RIVER  11 

upon  cattle  at  5  to  20  pound  a  cow,  when  they 
came  to  winter  them  with  inland  hay,  and  feed 
upon  such  wild  fother  as  was  never  cut  before, 
they  could  not  hold  out  the  winter,  but,  ordina 
rily  the  first  or  second  year  after  their  coming 
up  to  a  new  plantation,  many  of  their  cattle 
died."  And  this  from  the  same  author:  "Of 
the  Planting  of  the  19th  Church  in  the  Matta- 
chusets'  Government,  called  Sudbury:"  "This 
year  [does  he  mean  1654  ?]  the  town  and  church 
of  Christ  at  Sudbury  began  to  have  the  first 
foundation  stones  laid,  taking  up  her  station  in 
the  inland  country,  as  her  elder  sister  Concord 
had  formerly  done,  lying  further  up  the  same 
river,  being  furnished  with  great  plenty  of  fresh 
marsh,  but,  it  lying  very  low  is  much  indam- 
aged  with  land  floods,  insomuch  that  when  the 
summer  proves  wet  they  lose  part  of  their  hay ; 
yet  are  they  so  sufficiently  provided  that  they 
take  in  cattle  of  other  towns  to  winter." 

The  sluggish  artery  of  the  Concord  meadows 
steals  thus  unobserved  through  the  town,  with 
out  a  murmur  or  a  pulse -beat,  its  general  course 
from  southwest  to  northeast,  and  its  length 
about  fifty  miles;  a  huge  volume  of  matter, 
ceaselessly  rolling  through  the  plains  and  val 
leys  of  the  substantial  earth  with  the  mocca- 
sined  tread  of  an  Indian  warrior,  making  haste 
from  the  high  places  of  the  earth  to  its  ancient 


12  CONCORD  RIVER 

reservoir.  The  murmurs  of  many  a  famous 
river  on  the  other  side  of  the  globe  reach  even 
to  us  here,  as  to  more  distant  dwellers  on  its 
banks;  many  a  poet's  stream,  floating  the  helms 
and  shields  of  heroes  on  its  bosom.  The  Xan- 
thus  or  Scamander  is  not  a  mere  dry  channel 
and  bed  of  a  mountain  torrent,  but  fed  by  the 
ever-flowing  springs  of  fame :  — 

"  And  thou  Simois,  that  as  an  arrowe,  clere 
Through  Troy  rennest,  aie  downward  to  the  sea ; "  — 

and  I  trust  that  I  may  be  allowed  to  associate 
our  muddy  but  much  abused  Concord  Eiver 
with  the  most  famous  in  history. 

"  Sure  there  are  poets  which  did  never  dream 
Upon  Parnassus,  nor  did  taste  the  stream 
Of  Helicon ;  we  therefore  may  suppose 
Those  made  not  poets,  but  the  poets  those." 

The  Mississippi,  the  Ganges,  and  the  Nile, 
those  journeying  atoms  from  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains,  the  Himmaleh,  and  Mountains  of  the 
Moon,  have  a  kind  of  personal  importance  in 
the  annals  of  the  world.  The  heavens  are  not 
yet  drained  over  their  sources,  but  the  Moun 
tains  of  the  Moon  still  send  their  annual  tribute 
to  the  Pasha  without  fail,  as  they  did  to  the 
Pharaohs,  though  he  must  collect  the  rest  of  his 
revenue  at  the  point  of  the  sword.  Rivers  must 
have  been  the  guides  which  conducted  the  foot 
steps  of  the  first  travelers.  They  are  the  con- 


CONCORD  RIVER  13 

stant  lure,  when  they  flow  by  our  doors,  to  dis 
tant  enterprise  and  adventure ;  and,  by  a  natu 
ral  impulse,  the  dwellers  on  their  banks  will  at 
length  accompany  their  currents  to  the  lowlands 
of  the  globe,  or  explore  at  their  invitation  the 
interior  of  continents.  They  are  the  natural 
highways  of  all  nations,  not  only  leveling  the 
ground  and  removing  obstacles  from  the  path 
of  the  traveler,  quenching  his  thirst  and  bear 
ing  him  on  their  bosoms,  but  conducting  him 
through  the  most  interesting  scenery,  the  most 
populous  portions  of  the  globe,  and  where  the 
animal  and  vegetable  kingdoms  attain  their 
greatest  perfection. 

I  had  often  stood  on  the  banks  of  the  Con 
cord,  watching  the  lapse  of  the  current,  an  em 
blem  of  all  progress,  following  the  same  law 
with  the  system,  with  time,  and  all  that  is  made ; 
the  weeds  at  the  bottom  gently  bending  down 
the  stream,  shaken  by  the  watery  wind,  still 
planted  where  their  seeds  had  sunk,  but  erelong 
to  die  and  go  down  likewise ;  the  shining  peb 
bles,  not  yet  anxious  to  better  their  condition, 
the  chips  and  weeds,  and  occasional  logs  and 
stems  of  trees  that  floated  past,  fulfilling  their 
;ate,  were  objects  of  singular  interest  to  me, 
and  at  last  I  resolved  to  launch  myself  on  its 
bosom  and  float  whither  it  would  bear  me. 


SATUKDAY. 

••  Come,  come,  my  lovely  fair,  and  let  us  try 
Those  rural  delicacies." 

QUAKLKS,  Christ's  Invitation  to  the  Soul. 

AT  length,  on  Saturday,  the  last  day  of  Au 
gust,  1839,  we  two,  brothers,  and  natives  of 
Concord,  weighed  anchor  in  this  river  port ;  for 
Concord,  too,  lies  under  the  sun,  a  port  of  entry 
and  departure  for  the  bodies  as  well  as  the  souls 
of  men;  one  shore  at  least  exempted  from  all 
duties  but  such  as  an  honest  man  will  gladly 
discharge.  A  warm,  drizzling  rain  had  obscured 
the  morning,  and  threatened  to  delay  our  voy 
age,  but  at  length  the  leaves  and  grass  were 
dried,  and  it  came  out  a  mild  afternoon,  as  se 
rene  and  fresh  as  if  Nature  were  maturing  some 
greater  scheme  of  her  own.  After  this  long 
dripping  and  oozing  from  every  pore,  she  began 
to  respire  again  more  healthily  than  ever.  So 
with  a  vigorous  shove  we  launched  our  boat 
from  the  bank,  while  the  flags  and  bulrushes 
courtesied  a  God-speed,  and  dropped  silently 
down  the  stream. 

Our  boat,  which  had  cost  us  a  week's  labor 
in  the  spring,  was  in  form  like  a  fisherman's 


16  A  WEEK 

dory,  fifteen  feet  long  by  three  and  a  half  in 
breadth  at  the  widest  part,  painted  green  below, 
with  a  border  of  blue,  with  reference  to  the  two 
elements  in  which  it  was  to  spend  its  existence. 
It  had  been  loaded  the  evening  before  at  our 
door,  half  a  mile  from  the  river,  with  potatoes 
and  melons  from  a  patch  which  we  had  culti 
vated,  and  a  few  utensils;  and  was  provided 
with  wheels  in  order  to  be  rolled  around  falls, 
as  well  as  with  two  sets  of  oars,  and  several 
slender  poles  for  shoving  in  shallow  places,  and 
also  two  masts,  one  of  which  served  for  a  tent- 
pole  at  night ;  for  a  buffalo-skin  was  to  be  our 
bed,  and  a  tent  of  cotton  cloth  our  roof.  It 
was  strongly  built,  but  heavy,  and  hardly  of 
better  model  than  usual.  If  rightly  made,  a"\ 
boat  would  be  a  sort  of  amphibious  animal,  a  J 
creature  of  two  elements,  related  by  one  half  its  I 
structure  to  some  swift  and  shapely  fish,  and  by  \ 
the  other  to  some  strong-winged  and  graceful 
bird.  The  fish  shows  where  there  should  be  the 
greatest  breadth  of  beam  and  depth  in  the  hold ; 
its  fins  direct  where  to  set  the  oars,  and  the  tail 
gives  some  hint  for  the  form  and  position  of  the 
rudder.  The  bird  shows  how  to  rig  and  trim 
the  sails,  and  what  form  to  give  to  the  prow, 
that  it  may  balance  the  boat  and  divide  the  air 
and  water  best.  These  hints  we  had  but  par 
tially  obeyed.  But  the  eyes,  though  they  are 


SATURDAY  17 

no  sailors,  will  never  be  satisfied  with  any  model, 
however  fashionable,  which  does  not  answer  all 
the  requisitions  of  art.  However,  as  art  is  all 
of  a  ship  but  the  wood,  and  yet  the  wood  alone 
will  rudely  serve  the  purpose  of  a  ship,  so  our 
boat,  being  of  wood,  gladly  availed  itself  of  the 
old  law  that  the  heavier  shall  float  the  lighter, 
and  though  a  dull  water-fowl,  proved  a  suffi 
cient  buoy  for  our  purpose. 

"  Were  it  the  will  of  Heaven,  an  osier  bough 
Were  vessel  safe  enough  the  seas  to  plough." 

Some  village  friends  stood  upon  a  promontory 
lower  down  the  stream  to  wave  us  a  last  fare 
well;  but  we,  having  already  performed  these 
shore  rites,  with  excusable  reserve,  as  befits 
those  who  are  embarked  on  unusual  enterprises, 
who  behold  but  speak  not,  silently  glided  past 
the  firm  lands  of  Concord,  both  peopled  cape 
and  lonely  summer  meadow,  with  steady  sweeps. 
And  yet  we  did  unbend  so  far  as  to  let  our  guns 
or  11  gj  when  at  length  we  had  swept  out 


of  sight,  and  thus  left  the  woods  to  ring  again 
with  their  echoes;  and  it  may  be  many  russet- 
clad  children,  lurking  in  those  broad  meadows, 
with  the  bittern  and  the  woodcock  and  the  rail, 
though  wholly  concealed  by  brakes  and  hard- 
hack  and  meadow-sweet,  heard  our  salute  that 
afternoon. 

We  were  soon  floating  past  the  first  regular 


18  A   WEEK 

battle-ground  of  the  Revolution,  resting  on  our 
oars  between  the  still  visible  abutments  of  that 
"North  Bridge,"  over  which  in  April,  1775, 
rolled  the  first  faint  tide  of  that  war  which 
ceased  not,  till,  as  we  read  on  the  stone  on  our 
right,  it  "gave  peace  to  these  United  States." 
As  a  Concord  poet  has  sung :  — 

"  By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 

Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

"  The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept ; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps ; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps/' 

Our  reflections  had  already  acquired  a  histor 
ical  remoteness  from  the  scenes  we  had  left,  and 
we  ourselves  essayed  to  sing :  — 

Ah,  't  is  in  vain  the  peaceful  din 

That  wakes  the  ignoble  town, 
Not  thus  did  braver  spirits  win 

A  patriot's  renown. 

There  is  one  field  beside  this  stream 

Wherein  no  foot  does  fall, 
But  yet  it  beareth  in  my  dream 

A  richer  crop  than  all. 

Let  me  believe  a  dream  so  dear, 
Some  heart  beat  high  that  day, 

Above  the  petty  Province  here, 
And  Britain  far  away ; 


SATURDAY  19 

Some  hero  of  the  ancient  mould, 

Some  arm  of  knightly  worth, 
Of  strength  unbought,  and  faith  unsold, 

Honored  this  spot  of  earth ; 

Who  sought  the  prize  his  heart  described, 

And  did  not  ask  release, 
Whose  free-born  valor  was  not  bribed 

By  prospect  of  a  peace. 

The  men  who  stood  on  yonder  height 

That  day  are  long  since  gone ; 
Not  the  same  hand  directs  the  fight 

And  monumental  stone. 

Ye  were  the  Grecian  cities  then, 

The  Romes  of  modern  birth, 
Where  the  New  England  husbandmen 

Have  shown  a  Roman  worth. 

In  vain  I  search  a  foreign  land 

To  find  our  Bunker  Hill, 
And  Lexington  and  Concord  stand 

By  no  Laconiau  rill, 

With  such  thoughts  we  swept  gently  by  this 
now  peaceful  pasture-ground,  on  waves  of  Con 
cord,  in  which  was  long  since  drowned  the  din 
of  war. 

But  since  we  sailed 
Some  things  have  failed, 
And  many  a  dream 
Gone  down  the  stream. 

Here  then  an  aged  shepherd  dwelt, 
Who  to  his  flock  his  substance  dealt, 
And  ruled  them  with  a  vigorous  crook. 
By  precept  of  the  sacred  Book ; 


20  A   WEEK 

But  he  the  pierless  bridge  passed  o'er, 
And  solitary  left  the  shore. 

Anon  a  youthful  pastor  came, 
Whose  crook  was  not  unknown  to  fame, 
HjsJaiabs  he  viewed  with  gentle  glance, 
Spread  o'er  the  country's  wide  expanse, 
And  fed  with  "  Mosses  from  the  Manse." 
Here  was  our  Hawthorne  in  the  dale, 
And  here  the  shepherd  told  his  tale. 

That  slight  shaft  had  now  sunk  behind  the 
hills,  and  we  had  floated  round  the  neighboring 
bend,  and  under  the  new  North  Bridge  between 
Ponkawtasset  and  the  Poplar  Hill,  into  the 
Great  Meadows,  which,  like  a  broad  moccasin 
print,  have  leveled  a  fertile  and  juicy  place  in 
nature. 

On  Ponkawtasset,  since  we  took  our  way 
Down  this  still  stream  to  far  Billericay, 
A  poet  wise  has  settled,  whose  fine  ray 
Doth  often  shine  on  Concord's  twilight  day. 

Like  those  first  stars,  whose  silver  beams  on  high, 
Shining  more  brightly  as  the  day  goes  by, 
Most  travelers  cannot  at  first  descry, 
But  eyes  that  wont  to  range  the  evening  sky, 

And  know  celestial  lights,  do  plainly  see, 
And  gladly  hail  them,  numbering  two  or  three ; 
For  lore  that 's  deep  must  deeply  studied  be, 
As  from  deep  wells  men  read  star-poetry. 

These  stars  are  never  paled,  though  out  of  sight, 
But  like  the  sun  they  shine  forever  bright; 


SATURDAY  21 

Ay,  they  are  suns,  though  earth  must  in  its  flight 
Put  out  its  eyes  that  it  may  see  their  light. 

Who  would  neglect  the  least  celestial  sound, 
Or  faintest  light  that  falls  on  earthly  ground, 
If  he  could  know  it  one  day  would  be  found 
That  star  in  Cygnus  whither  we  are  bound, 
And  pale  our  sun  with  heavenly  radiance  round  ? 

Gradually  the  village  murmur  subsided,  and 
we  seemed  to  be  embarked  on  the  placid  current 
of  our  dreams,  floating  from  past  to  future  as 
silently  as  one  awakes  to  fresh  morning  or  even 
ing  thoughts.  We  glided  noiselessly  down  the 
stream,  occasionally  driving  a  pickerel  or  a 
bream  from  the  covert  of  the  pads,  and  the 
smaller  bittern  now  and  then  sailed  away  on 
sluggish  wings  from  some  recess  in  the  shore, 
or  the  larger  lifted  itself  out  of  the  long  grass 
at  our  approach,  and  carried  its  precious  legs 
away  to  deposit  them  in  a  place  of  safety.  The 
tortoises  also  rapidly  dropped  into  the  water, 
as  our  boat  ruffled  the  surface  amid  the  wil 
lows,  breaking  the  reflections  of  the  trees.  The 
banks  had  passed  the  height  of  their  beauty, 
and  some  of  the  brighter  flowers  showed  by 
their  faded  tints  that  the  season  was  verging 
towards  the  afternoon  of  the  year;  but  this 
sombre  tinge  enhanced  their  sincerity,  and  in 
the  still  unabated  heats  they  seemed  like  the 
mossy  brink  of  some  cool  well.  The  narrow- 


22  A   WEEK 

leaved  willow  (Salix  Purshiana)  lay  along  the 
surface  of  the  water  in  masses  of  light  green 
foliage,  interspersed  with  the  large  balls  of  the 
button-bush.  The  small  rose-colored  polygonum 
raised  its  head  proudly  above  the  water  on 
either  hand,  and  flowering  at  this  season  and  in 
these  localities,  in  front  of  dense  fields  of  the 
white  species  which  skirted  the  sides  of  the 
stream,  its  little  streak  of  red  looked  very  rare 
and  precious.  The  pure  white  blossoms  of  the 
arrow-head  stood  in  the  shallower  parts,  and  a 
few  cardinals  on  the  margin  still  proudly  sur 
veyed  themselves  reflected  in  the  water,  though 
the  latter,  as  well  as  the  pickerel-weed,  was  now 
nearly  out  of  blossom.  The  snake-head  ( Che- 
lone  glabrd)  grew  close  to  the  shore,  while  a 
kind  of  coreopsis,  turning  its  brazen  face  to  the 
sun,  full  and  rank,  and  a  tall,  dull  red  flower 
(JEupatorium  purpureum,  or  trumpet  -  weed) 
formed  the  rear  rank  of  the  fluvial  array.  The 
bright  blue  flowers  of  the  soapwort  gentian 
were  sprinkled  here  and  there  in  the  adjacent 
meadows,  like  flowers  which  Proserpine  had 
dropped,  and  still  farther  in  the  fields  or  higher 
on  the  bank  were  seen  the  purple  Gerardia,  the 
Virginian  rhexia,  and  drooping  neottia  or  la 
dies '-tresses;  while  from  the  more  distant  way 
sides  which  we  occasionally  passed,  and  banks 
where  the  sun  had  lodged,  was  reflected  still  a 


SATURDAY  23 

dull  yellow  beam  from  the  ranks  of  tansy,  now 
past  its  prime.  In  short,  Nature  seemed  to 
have  adorned  herself  for  our  departure  with  a 
profusion  of  fringes  and  curls,  mingled  with  the 
bright  tints  of  flowers,  reflected  in  the  water. 
But  we  missed  the  white  water-lily,  which  is  the 
queen  of  river  flowers,  its  reign  being  over  for 
this  season.  He  makes  his  voyage  too  late, 
perhaps,  by  a  true  water  clock  who  delays  so 
long.  Many  of  this  species  inhabit  our  Con 
cord  water.  I  have  passed  down  the  river  be 
fore  sunrise  on  a  summer  morning,  between 
fields  of  lilies  still  shut  in  sleep ;  and  when,  at 
length,  the  flakes  of  sunlight  from  over  the 
bank  fell  on  the  surface  of  the  water,  whole 
fields  of  white  blossoms  seemed  to  flash  open 
before  me,  as  I  floated  along,  like  the  unfolding 
of  a  banner,  so  sensible  is  this  flower  to  the 
influence  of  the  sun's  rays. 

As  we  were  floating  through  the  last  of  these 
familiar  meadows,  we  observed  the  large  and 
conspicuous  flowers  of  the  hibiscus,  covering 
the  dwarf  willows  and  mingled  with  the  leaves 
of  the  grape,  and  wished  that  we  could  inform 
one  of  our  friends  behind  of  the  locality  of  this 
somewhat  rare  and  inaccessible  flower  before  it 
was  too  late  to  pluck  it ;  but  we  were  just  glid 
ing  out  of  sight  of  the  village  spire  before  it 
occurred  to  us  that  the  farmer  in  the  adjacent 


24  A   WEEK 

meadow  would  go  to  church  on  the  morrow,  and 
would  carry  this  news  for  us;  and  so  by  the 
Monday,  while  we  should  be  floating  on  the 
Merrimack,  our  friend  would  be  reaching  to 
pluck  this  blossom  on  the  bank  of  the  Concord. 

After  a  pause  at  Ball's  Hill,  the  St.  Ann's 
of  Concord  voyageurs,  not  to  say  any  prayer 
for  the  success  of  our  voyage,  but  to  gather  the 
few  berries  which  were  still  left  on  the  hills, 
hanging  by  very  slender  threads,  we  weighed 
anchor  again,  and  were  soon  out  of  sight  of  our 
native  village.  The  land  seemed  to  grow  fairer 
as  we  withdrew  from  it.  Far  away  to  the 
southwest  lay  the  quiet  village,  left  alone  under 
its  elms  and  button  woods  in  mid-afternoon ;  and 
the  hills,  notwithstanding  their  blue,  ethereal 
faces,  seemed  to  cast  a  saddened  eye  on  their 
old  playfellows ;  but,  turning  short  to  the  north, 
we  bade  adieu  to  their  familiar  outlines,  and 
addressed  ourselves  to  new  scenes  and  adven 
tures.  Naught  was  familiar  but  the  heavens, 
from  under  whose  roof  the  voyageur  nevei 
passes;  but  with  their  countenance,  and  the 
acquaintance  we  had  with  river  and  wood,  we 
trusted  to  fare  well  under  any  circumstances. 

From  this  point  the  river  runs  perfectly 
straight  for  a  mile  or  more  to  Carlisle  Bridge, 
which  consists  of  twenty  wooden  piers,  and 
when  we  looked  back  over  it,  its  surface  was 


SATURDAY  25 

reduced  to  a  line's  breadth,  and  appeared  like 
a  cobweb  gleaming  in  the  sun.  Here  and  there 
might  be  seen  a  pole  sticking  up,  to  mark  the 
place  where  some  fisherman  had  enjoyed  unusual 
luck,  and  in  return  had  consecrated  his  rod  to 
the  deities  who  preside  over  these  shallows.  It 
was  full  twice  as  broad  as  before,  deep  and 
tranquil,  with  a  muddy  bottom,  and  bordered 
with  willows,  beyond  which  spread  broad  la 
goons  covered  with  pads,  bulrushes,  and  flags. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  passed  a  man  on  the 
shore  fishing  with  a  long  birch  pole,  its  silvery 
bark  left  on,  and  a  dog  at  his  side,  rowing  so 
near  as  to  agitate  his  cork  with  our  oars,  and 
drive  away  luck  for  a  season ;  and  when  we  had 
rowed  a  mile  as  straight  as  an  arrow,  with  our 
faces  turned  towards  him,  and  the  bubbles  in 
our  wake  still  visible  on  the  tranquil  surface, 
there  stood  the  fisher  still  with  his  dog,  like 
statues  under  the  other  side  of  the  heavens,  the 
only  objects  to  relieve  the  eye  in  the  extended 
meadow ;  and  there  would  he  stand  abiding  his 
luck,  till  he  took  his  way  home  through  the 
fields  at  evening  with  his  fish.  Thus,  by  one 
bait  or  another,  Nature  allures  inhabitants  into 
all  her  recesses.  This  man  was  the  last  of  our 
townsmen  whom  we  saw,  and  we  silently 
through  him  bade  adieu  to  our  friends* 


26  A   WEEK 

*i^* 

The  characteristics  and  pursuits  of  various 
ages  and  races  of  men  are  always  existing  in 
epitome  in  every  neighborhood.  The  pleasures 
of  my  earliest  youth  have  become  the  inherit 
ance  of  other  men.  This  man  is  still  a  fisher, 
and  belongs  to  an  era  in  which  I  myself  have 
lived.  Perchance  he  is  not  confounded  by 
many  knowledges,  and  has  not  sought  out  many 
inventions,  but  how  to  take  many  fishes  before 
the  sun  sets,  with  his  slender  birchen  pole  and 
flaxen  line,  that  is  invention  enough  for  him. 
It  is  good  even  to  be  a  fisherman  in  summer 
and  in  winter.  Some  men  are  judges,  these 
August  days,  sitting  on  benches,  even  till  the 
court  rises;  they  sit  judging  there  honorably, 
between  the  seasons  and  between  meals,  leading 
a  civil  politic  life,  arbitrating  in  the  case  of 
Spaulding  versus  Cummings,  it  may  be,  from 
highest  noon  till  the  red  vesper  sinks  into  the 
west.  The  fisherman,  meanwhile,  stands  in 
three  feet  of  water,  under  the  same  summer's 
sun,  arbitrating  in  other  cases  between  muck 
worm  and  shiner,  amid  the  fragrance  of  water- 
lilies,  mint,  and  pontederia,  leading  his  life 
many  rods  from  the  dry  land,  within  a  pole's 
length  of  where  the  larger  fishes  swim.  Human 
life  is  to  him  very  much  like  a  river, — 

"  re  mi  ing  aie  downward  to  the  sea." 


SATURDAY  27 

This  was  his  observation.     His  honor  made  a 
great  discovery  in  bailments. 

I  can  just  remember  an  old  brown-coated 
man  who  was  the  Walton  of  this  stream,  who 
had  come  over  from  Newcastle,  England,  with 
his  son,  —  the  latter  a  stout  and  hearty  man 
who  had  lifted  an  anchor  in  his  day.  A  straight 
old  man  he  was,  who  took  his  way  in  silence 
through  the  meadows,  having  passed  the  period 
of  communication  with  his  fellows ;  his  old  ex 
perienced  coat,  hanging  long  and  straight  and 
brown  as  the  yellow-pine  bark,  glittering  with 
so  much  smothered  sunlight,  if  you  stood  near 
enough,  no  work  of  art  but  naturalized  at 
length.  I  often  discovered  him  unexpectedly 
amid  the  pads  and  the  gray  willows  when  he 
moved,  fishing  in  some  old  country  method,  — 
for  youth  and  age  then  went  a-fishing  together, 
—  full  of  incommunicable  thoughts,  perchance 
about  his  own  Tyne  and  Northumberland.  He 
was  always  to  be  seen  in  serene  afternoons 
haunting  the  river,  and  almost  rustling  with  the 
sedge;  so  many  sunny  hours  in  an  old  man's 
life,  entrapping  silly  fish;  almost  grown  to  be 
the  sun's  familiar;  what  need  had  he  of  hat  or 
raiment  any,  having  served  out  his  time,  and 
seen  through  such  thin  disguises  ?  I  have  seen 
how  his  coeval  fates  rewarded  him  with  the  yel 
low  perch,  and  yet  I  thought  his  luck  was  not 


28  A   WEEK 

in  proportion  to  his  years;  and  I  have  seen 
when,  with  slow  steps  and  weighed  down  with 
aged  thoughts,  he  disappeared  with  his  fish 
tinder  his  low-roofed  house  on  the  skirts  of  the 
village.  I  think  nobody  else  saw  him;  nobody 
else  remembers  him  now,  for  he  soon  after  died, 
and  migrated  to  new  Tyne  streams.  His  fishing' 
was  not  a  sport,  nor  solely  a  means  of  subsist 
ence,  but  a  sort  of  solemn  sacrament  and  with 
drawal  from  the  world,  just  as  the  aged  read 
their  Bibles.  x — 

Whether  we  live  by  the  seaside,  or  by  the 
lakes  and  rivers,  or  on  the  prairie,  it  concerns 
us  to  attend  to  the  nature  of  fishes,  since  they 
are  not  phenomena  confined  to  certain  localities 
only,  but  forms  and  phases  of  the  life  in  nature 
universally  dispersed.  The  countless  shoals 
which  annually  coast  the  shores  of  Europe  and 
America  are  not  so  interesting  to  the  student 
of  nature  as  the  more  fertile  law  itself,  which 
deposits  their  spawn  on  the  tops  of  mountains 
and  on  the  interior  plains ;  the  fish  principle  in 
nature,  from  which  it  results  that  they  may  be 
found  in  water  in  so  many  places,  in  greater  or 
less  numbers.  The  natural  historian  is  not  a 
fisherman  who  prays  for  cloudy  days  and  good 
luck  merely;  but  as  fishing  has  been  styled  "a 
contemplative  man's  recreation,"  introducing 


SATURDAY  29 

him  profitably  to  woods  and  water,  so  the  fruit 
of  the  naturalist's  observations  is  not  in  new 
genera  or  species,  but  in  new  contemplations 
still,  and  .science  is  only  a-onore  contemplative 
man's  recreation.  The  seeds  of  the  life  of  fishes 
are  everywhere  disseminated,  whether  the  winds 
waft  them,  or  the  waters  float  them,  or  the  deep 
earth  holds  them;  wherever  a  pond  is  dug, 
straightway  it  is  stocked  with  this  vivacious 
race.  They  have  a  lease  of  nature,  and  it  is 
not  yet  out.  The  Chinese  are  bribed  to  carry 
their  ova  from  province  to  province  in  jars  or 
in  hollow  reeds,  or  the  water-birds  to  transport 
them  to  the  mountain  tarns  and  interior  lakes. 
There  are  fishes  wherever  there  is  a  fluid  me 
dium,  and  even  in  clouds  and  in  melted  metals 
we  detect  their  semblance.  Think  how  in  win 
ter  you  can  sink  a  line  down  straight  in  a 
pasture  through  snow  and  through  ice,  and  pull 
up  a  bright,  slippery,  dumb,  subterranean  silver 
or  golden  fish!  It  is  curious,  also,  to  reflect 
how  they  make  one  family,  from  the  largest  to 
the  smallest.  The  least  minnow  that  lies  on  the 
ice  as  bait  for  pickerel  looks  like  a  huge  sea- 
fish  cast  up  on  the  shore.  In  the  waters  of 
this  town  there  are  about  a  dozen  distinct  spe 
cies,  though  the  inexperienced  would  expect 
many  more. 


30  A   WEEK 

It  enhances  our  sense  of  the  grand  security 
and  serenity  of  nature  to  observe  the  still  uiir 
disturbed  pnnnnmy  and  content  of  the  fishes 
of  this  century,  their  happiness  a  regular  fruit 
of  the  summer.  The  Fresh- Water  Sun-Fish, 
Bream,  or  Ruff  (JPomotis  wilgaris),  as  it  were, 
without  ancestry,  without  posterity,  still  repre 
sents  the  Fresh-Water  Sun-Fish  in  nature.  It 
is  the  most  common  of  all,  and  seen  on  every 
urchin's  string;  a  simple  and  inoffensive  fish, 
whose  nests  are  visible  all  along  the  shore,  hol 
lowed  in  the  sand,  over  which  it  is  steadily 
poised  through  the  summer  hours  on  waving 
fin.  Sometimes  there  are  twenty  or  thirty  nests 
in  the  space  of  a  few  rods,  two  feet  wide  by  half 
a  foot  in  depth,  and  made  with  no  little  labor, 
the  weeds  being  removed,  and  the  sand  shoved 
up  on  the  sides,  like  a  bowl.  Here  it  may  be 
seen  early  in  summer  assiduously  brooding,  and 
driving  away  minnows  and  larger  fishes,  even 
its  own  species,  which  would  disturb  its  ova, 
pursuing  them  a  few  feet,  and  circling  round 
swiftly  to  its  nest  again;  the  minnows,  like 
young  sharks,  instantly  entering  the  empty 
nests,  meanwhile,  and  swallowing  the  spawn, 
which  is  attached  to  the  weeds  and  to  the  bot 
tom,  on  the  sunny  side.  The  spawn  is  exposed 
to  so  many  dangers  that  a  very  small  propor 
tion  can  ever  become  fishes,  for  beside  being 


SATURDAY  31 

the  constant  prey  of  birds  and  fishes,  a  great 
many  nests  are  made  so  near  the  shore,  in  shal 
low  water,  that  they  are  left  dry  in  a  few  days, 
as  the  river  goes  down.  These  and  the  lam 
prey's  are  the  only  fishes'  nests  that  I  have  ob 
served,  though  the  ova  of  some  species  may  be 
seen  floating  on  the  surface.  The  breams  are 
so  careful  of  their  charge  that  you  may  stand 
close  by  in  the  water  and  examine  them  at  your 
leisure.  I  have  thus  stood  over  them  half  an 
hour  at  a  time,  and  stroked  them  familiarly 
without  frightening  them,  suffering  them  to 
nibble  my  fingers  harmlessly,  and  seen  them 
erect  their  dorsal  fins  in  anger  when  my  hand 
approached  their  ova,  and  have  even  taken  them 
gently  out  of  the  water  with  my  hand ;  though 
this  cannot  be  accomplished  by  a  sudden  move 
ment,  however  dexterous,  for  instant  warning  is 
conveyed  to  them  through  their  denser  element, 
but  only  by  letting  the  fingers  gradually  close 
about  them  as  they  are  poised  over  the  palm, 
and  with  the  utmost  gentleness  raising  them 
slowly  to  the  surface.  Though  stationary,  they 
kept  up  a  constant  sculling  or  waving  motion 
with  their  fins,  which  is  exceedingly  graceful, 
and  expressive  of  their  humble  happiness;  for 
unlike_ours,  the_element  in  which  theyJHjve_is 
a  stream  whio.h  must-  be  constantly  resisted. 
From  time  to  time  they  nibble  the  weeds  at  the 


32  A  WEEK 

bottom  or  overhanging  their  nests,  or  dart  after 
a  fly  or  a  worm.  The  dorsal  fin,  besides  an 
swering  the  purpose  of  a  keel,  with  the  anal, 
serves  to  keep  the  fish  upright,  for  in  shallow 
water,  where  this  is  not  covered,  they  fall  on 
their  sides.  As  you  stand  thus  stooping  over 
the  bream  in  its  nest,  the  edges  of  the  dorsal 
and  caudal  fins  have  a  singular  dusty  golden 
reflection,  and  its  eyes,  which  stand  out  from 
the  head,  are  transparent  and  colorless.  Seen 
in  its  native  element,  it  is  a  very  beautiful  and 
compact  .fish,  perfect  in  all  its  parts,  and  looks 
like  a  brijy^aiil-Cinii-Jresh-i^^  It  is 

a  perfect  jewel  of  the  river,  the  green,  red,  cop 
pery,  and  golden  reflections  of  its  mottled  sides 
being  the  concentration  of  such  rays  as  struggle 
through  the  floating  pads  and  flowers  to  the 
sandy  bottom,  and  in  harmony  with  the  sunlit 
brown  and  yellow  pebbles.  Behind  its  watery 
shield  it  dwells  far  from  many  accidents  inevi-/ 
table  to  human  life. 

There  is  also  another  species  of  bream  found 
in  our  river,  without  the  red  spot  on  the  oper- 
culum,  which,  according  to  M.  Agassiz,  is  un- 
described. 

The  Common  Perch  (Percaflavescens,  which 
name  describes  well  the  gleaming,  golden  re« 
flections  of  its  scales  as  it  is  drawn  out  of  the 
water,  its  red  gills  standing  out  in  vain  in  the 


SATURDAY  33 

thin  element)  is  one  of  the  handsomest  and  most 
regularly  formed  of  our  fishes,  and  at  such  a 
moment  as  this  reminds  us  of  the  fish  in  the 
picture  which  wished  to  be  restored  to  its  native 
element  until  it  had  grown  larger ;  and  indeed 
most  of  this  species  that  are  caught  are  not  half 
grown.  In  the  ponds  there  is  a  light-colored 
and  slender  kind,  which  swim  in  shoals  of  many 
hundreds  in  the  sunny  water,  in  company  with 
the  shiner,  averaging  not  more  than  six  or 
seven  inches  in  length,  while  only  a  few  larger 
specimens  are  found  in  the  deepest  water,  which 
prey  upon  their  weaker  brethren.  I  have  often 
attracted  these  small  perch  to  the  shore  at  even 
ing,  by  rippling  the  water  with  my  fingers,  and 
they  may  sometimes  be  caught  while  attempting 
to  pass  inside  your  hands.  It  is  a  tough  and 
heedless  fish,  biting  from  impulse,  without  nib 
bling,  and  from  impulse  refraining  to  bite,  and 
sculling  indifferently  past.  It  rather  prefers 
the  clear  water  and  sandy  bottoms,  though  here 
it  has  not  much  choice.  It  is  a  true  fish,  such 
as  the  angler  loves  to  put  into  his  basket  or 
hang  at  the  top  of  his  willow  twig,  in  shady 
afternoons  along  the  banks  of  the  stream.  So 
many  unquestionable  fishes  he  counts,  and  so 
many  shiners,  which  he  counts  and  then  throws 
away.  Old  Josselyn  in  his  "New  England's 
Rarities,"  published  in  1672,  mentions  the 
Perch  or  River  Partridge. 


84  A   WEEK 

The  Chivin,  Dace,  Roach,  Cousin  Trout,  or 
whatever  else  it  is  called  (Leuciscus  pulchellus), 
white  and  red,  is  always  an  unexpected  prize, 
which,  however,  any  angler  is  glad  to  hook  for 
its  rarity;  —  a  name  that  reminds  us  of  many 
an  unsuccessful  ramble  by  swift  streams,  when 
the  wind  rose  to  disappoint  the  fisher.  It  is 
commonly  a  silvery  soft-scaled  fish,  of  graceful, 
scholarlike,  and  classical  look,  like  many  a  pic 
ture  in  an  English  book.  It  loves  a  swift  cur 
rent  and  a  sandy  bottom,  and  bites  inadvertently, 
yet  not  without  appetite  for  the  bait.  The 
minnows  are  used  as  bait  for  pickerel  in  the 
winter.  The  red  chivin,  according  to  some,  is 
still  the  same  fish,  only  older,  or  with  its  tints 
deepened  as  they  think  by  the  darker  water  it 
inhabits,  as  the  red  clouds  swim  in  the  twilight 
atmosphere.  He  who  has  not  hooked  the  red 
chivin  is  not  yet  a  complete  angler.  Other 
fishes,  methinks,  are  slightly  amphibious,  but 
this  is  a  denizen  of  the  water  wholly.  The  cork 
goes  dancing  down  the  swift-rushing  stream, 
amid  the  weeds  and  sands,  when  suddenly,  by 
a  coincidence  never  to  be  remembered,  emerges 
this  fabulous  inhabitant  of  another  element,  a 
thing  heard  of  but  not  seen,  as  if  it  were  the 
instant  creation  of  an  eddy,  a  true  product  of 
the  running  stream.  And  this  bright  cupreous 
dolphin  was  spawned  and  has  passed  its  life  be* 


SATURDAY  35 

neath  the  level  of  your  feet  in  your  native  fields. 
Fishes  too,  as  well  as  birds  and  clouds,  derive 
their  armor  from  the  mine.  I  have  heard  of 
mackerel  visiting  the  copper  banks  at  a  particu 
lar  season ;  this  fish,  perchance,  has  its  habitat 
in  the  Coppermine  River.  I  have  caught  white 
chivin  of  great  size  in  the  Aboljacknagesic, 
where  it  empties  into  the  Penobscot,  at  the  base 
of  Mount  Ktaadn,  but  no  red  ones  there.  The 
latter  variety  seems  not  to  have  been  sufficiently 
observed. 

The  Dace  (Leuciscus  argenteus)  is  a  slight 
silvery  minnow,  found  generally  in  the  middle 
of  the  stream  where  the  current  is  most  rapid, 
and  frequently  confounded  with  the  last  named. 

The  Shiner  (Leuciscus  chrysoleucus)  is  a  soft- 
scaled  and  tender  fish,  the  victim  of  its  stronger 
neighbors,  found  in  all  places,  deep  and  shal 
low,  clear  and  turbid;  generally  the  first  nib- 
bier  at  the  bait,  but,  with  its  small  mouth  and 
nibbling  propensities,  not  easily  caught.  It  is 
a  erold  or  silver  bit  that  passes  current  in  the 

O  A 

river,  its  limber  tail  dimpling  the  surface  in 
sport  or  flight.  I  have  seen  the  fry,  when 
frightened  by  something  thrown  into  the  water, 
leap  out  by  dozens,  together  with  the  dace,  and 
wreck  themselves  upon  a  floating  plank.  It  is 
the  little  light-infant  of  the  river,  with  body 
armor  of  gold  or  silver  spangles,  slipping,  glid- 


36  A   WEEK 

ing  its  life  through  with  a  quirk  of  the  tail, 
half  in  the  water,  half  in  the  air,  upward  and 
ever  upward  with  flitting  fin  to  more  crystalline 
tides,  yet  still  abreast  of  us  dwellers  on  the 
bank.  It  is  almost  dissolved  by  the  summer 
heats.  A  slighter  and  lighter  colored  shiner  is 
found  in  one  of  our  ponds. 

The  Pickerel  (Esox  reticulatus),  the  swiftest, 
wariest,  and  most  ravenous  of  fishes,  which 
Josselyn  calls  the  Fresh- Water  or  River  Wolf, 
is  very  common  in  the  shallow  and  weedy  la 
goons  along  the  sides  of  the  stream.  It  is  a 
solemn,  stately,  ruminant  fish,  lurking  under 
the  shadow  of  a  pad  at  noon,  with  still,  circum 
spect,  voracious  eye,  motionless  as  a  jewel  set 
in  water,  or  moving  slowly  along  to  take  up  its 
position,  darting  from  time  to  time  at  such  un 
lucky  fish  or  frog  or  insect  as  comes  within  its 
range,  and  swallowing  it  at  a  gulp.  I  have 
caught  one  which  had  swallowed  a  brother  pick 
erel  half  as  large  as  itself,  with  the  tail  still 
visible  in  its  mouth,  while  the  head  was  already 
digested  in  its  stomach.  Sometimes  a  striped 
snake,  bound  to  greener  meadows  across  the 
stream,  ends  its  undulatory  progress  in  the 
same  receptacle.  They  are  so  greedy  and  im 
petuous  that  they  are  frequently  caught  by 
being  entangled  in  the  line  the  moment  it  is 
cast.  Fishermen  also  distinguish  the  brook 


SATURDAY  37 

pickerel,  a  shorter  and   thicker  fish  than  the 
former. 

The  Horned  Pout  (Plmelodus  nebulosus\ 
sometimes  called  Minister,  from  the  peculiar 
squeaking  noise  it  makes  when  drawn  out  of  the 
water,  is  a  dull  and  blundering  fellow,  and,  like 
the  eel,  vespertinal  in  his  habits  and  fond  of 
the  mud.  It  bites  deliberately,  as  if  about  its 
business.  They  are  taken  at  night  with  a  mass 
of  worms  strung  on  a  thread,  which  catches  in 
their  teeth,  sometimes  three  or  four,  with  an 
eel,  at  one  pull.  They  are  extremely  tenacious 
of  life,  opening  and  shutting  their  mouths  for 
half  an  hour  after  their  heads  have  been  cut  off ; 
a  bloodthirsty  and  bullying  race  of  rangers, 
inhabiting  the  fertile  river  bottoms,  with  ever  a 
lance  in  rest,  and  ready  to  do  battle  with  their 
nearest  neighbor.  I  have  observed  them  in 
summer,  when  every  other  one  had  a  long  and 
bloody  scar  upon  his  back,  where  the  skin  was 
gone,  the  mark,  perhaps,  of  some  fierce  encoun 
ter.  Sometimes  the  fry,  not  an  inch  long,  are 
seen  darkening  the  shore  with  their  myriads. 

The  Suckers  (Catostomi  JSostonienses  an 
tuberculati).  Common  and  Horned,  perhaps  on 
an  average  the  largest  of  our  fishes,  may  be  seen 
in  shoals  of  a  hundred  or  more,  stemming  the 
current  in  the  sun,  on  their  mysterious  migra 
tions,  and  sometimes  sucking  in  the  bait  which 


38  A   WEEK 

the  fisherman  suffers  to  float  toward  them. 
The  former,  which  sometimes  grow  to  a  large 
size,  are  frequently  caught  by  the  hand  in  the 
brooks,  or  like  the  red  chivin  are  jerked  out  by 
a  hook  fastened  firmly  to  the  end  of  a  stick,  and 
placed  under  their  jaws.  They  are  hardly 
known  to  the  mere  angler,  however,  not  often 
biting  at  his  baits,  though  the  spearer  carries 
home  many  a  mess  in  the  spring.  To  our  vil 
lage  eyes,  these  shoals  have  a  foreign  and  im 
posing  aspect,  realizing  the  fertility  of  the  seas. 

The  Common  Eel,  too  (.Murcena  Bostonien- 
SiY),the  only  species  of  eel  known  in  the  State,  a 
slimy,  squirming  creature,  informed  of  mud, 
still  squirming  in  the  pan,  is  speared  and 
hooked  up  with  various  success.  Methinks  it 
too  occurs  in  picture,  left  after  the  deluge,  in 
many  a  meadow  high  and  dry. 

In  the  shallow  parts  of  the  river,  where  the 
current  is  rapid  and  the  bottom  pebbly,  you 
may  sometimes  see  the  curious  circular  nests 
of  the  Lamprey  Eel  (Petromyzon  Americanus), 
the  American  Stone-Sucker,  as  large  as  a  cart 
wheel,  a  foot  or  two  in  height,  and  sometimes 
rising  half  a  foot  above  the  surface  of  the  water. 
They  collect  these  stones,  of  the  size  of  a  hen's 
egg,  with  their  mouths,  as  their  name  implies, 
and  are  said  to  fashion  them  into  circles  with 
their  tails.  They  ascend  falls  by  clinging  to 


SATURDAY  39 

the  stones,  which  may  sometimes  be  raised  by 
lifting  the  fish  by  the  tail.  As  they  are  not 
seen  on  their  way  down  the  streams,  it  is 
thought  by  fishermen  that  they  never  return, 
but  waste  away  and  die,  clinging  to  rocks  and 
stumps  of  trees  for  an  indefinite  period ;  a  tragic 
feature  in  the  scenery  of  the  river  bottoms  wor 
thy  to  be  remembered  with  Shakespeare's  de 
scription  of  the  sea-floor.  They  are  rarely  seen 
in  our  waters  at  present,  on  account  of  the 
dams,  though  they  are  taken  in  great  quantities 
at  the  mouth  of  the  river  in  Lowell.  Their 
nests,  which  are  very  conspicuous,  look  more 
like  art  than  anything  in  the  river. 

If  we  had  leisure  this  afternoon,  we  might 
turn  our  prow  up  the  brooks  in  quest  of  the 
classical  trout  and  the  minnows.  Of  the  last 
alone,  according  to  M.  Agassiz,  several  of  the 
species  found  in  this  town  are  yet  undescribed. 
These  would,  perhaps,  complete  the  list  of  our 
finny  contemporaries  in  the  Concord  waters. 

Salmon,  Shad,  and  Alewives  were  formerly 
abundant  here,  and  taken  in  weirs  by  the  In 
dians,  who  taught  this  method  to  the  whites, 
by  whom  they  were  used  as  food  and  as  manure, 
until  the  dam  and  afterward  the  canal  at  Bil- 
lerica,  and  the  factories  at  Lowell,  put  an  end 
to  their  migrations  hitherward;  though  it  is 
thought  that  a  few  more  enterprising  shad  may 


40  A   WEEK 

still  occasionally  be  seen  in  this  part  of  the 
river.  It  is  said,  to  account  for  the  destruction 
of  the  fishery,  that  those  who  at  that  time  rep 
resented  the  interests  of  the  fishermen  and  the 
fishes,  remembering  between  what  dates  they 
were  accustomed  to  take  the  grown  shad,  stipu 
lated  that  the  dams  should  be  left  open  for  that 
season  only,  and  the  fry,  which  go  down  a 
month  later,  were  consequently  stopped  and 
destroyed  by  myriads.  Others  say  that  the 
fish- ways  were  not  properly  constructed.  Per 
chance,  after  a  few  thousands  of  years,  if  the 
fishes  will  be  patient,  and  pass  their  summers 
elsewhere  meanwhile,  nature  will  have  leveled 
the  Billerica  dam,  and  the  Lowell  factories,  and 
the  Grass-ground  River  run  clear  again,  to 
be  explored  by  new  migratory  shoals,  even  as 
far  as  the  Hopkinton  pond  and  Westborough 
swamp. 

One  would  like  to  know  more  of  that  race, 
now  extinct,  whose  seines  lie  rotting  in  the  gar 
rets  of  their  children,  who  openly  professed  the 
trade  of  fishermen,  and  even  fed  their  townsmen 
creditably,  not  skulking  through  the  meadows 
to  a  rainy  afternoon  sport.  Dim  visions  we  still 
get  of  miraculous  draughts  of  fishes,  and  heaps 
uncountable  by  the  river-side,  from  the  tales  of 
our  seniors  sent  on  horseback  in  their  childhood 
from  the  neighboring  towns,  perched  on  saddle- 


SATURDAY  41 

bags,  with  instructions  to  get  the  one  bag  filled 
with  shad,  the  other  with  ale  wives.  At  least 
one  memento  of  those  days  may  still  exist  in 
the  memory  of  this  generation,  in  the  familiar 
appellation  of  a  celebrated  train-band  of  this 
town,  whose  untrained  ancestors  stood  credita 
bly  at  Concord  North  Bridge.  Their  captain, 
a  man  of  piscatory  tastes,  having  duly  warned 
his  company  to  turn  out  on  a  certain  day,  they, 
like  obedient  soldiers,  appeared  promptly  on 
parade  at  the  appointed  time,  but,  unfortu 
nately,  they  went  undrilled,  except  in  the  ma 
noeuvres  of  a  soldier's  wit  and  unlicensed  jesting, 
that  May  day ;  for  their  captain,  forgetting  his 
own  appointment,  and  warned  only  by  the  fa 
vorable  aspect  of  the  heavens,  as  he  had  often 
done  before,  went  a-fishing  that  afternoon,  and 
his  company  thenceforth  was  known  to  old  and 
young,  grave  and  gay,  as  "The  Shad,"  and  by 
the  youths  of  this  vicinity  this  was  long  re 
garded  as  the  proper  name  of  all  the  irregular 
militia  in  Christendom.  But,  alas!  no  record 
of  these  fishers'  lives  remains  that  we  know, 
unless  it  be  one  brief  page  of  hard  but  unques 
tionable  history,  which  occurs  in  Day  Book  No. 
4,  of  an  old  trader  of  this  town,  long  since  dead, 
which  shows  pretty  plainly  what  constituted  a 
fisherman's  stock  in  trade  in  those  days.  It 
purports  to  be  a  Fisherman's  Account  Current, 


42  A   WEEK 

probably  for  the  fishing  season  of  the  year  1805, 
during  which  months  he  purchased  daily  rum 
and  sugar,  sugar  and  rum,  N.  E.  and  W.  L, 
"one  cod  line,"  "one  brown  mug,"  and  "a  line 
for  the  seine; "  rum  and  sugar,  sugar  and  rum, 
"good  loaf  sugar,"  and  "good  brown,"  W.  I. 
and  N.  E.,  in  short  and  uniform  entries  to  the 
bottom  of  the  page,  all  carried  out  in  pounds, 
shillings,  and  pence,  from  March  25  to  June  5, 
and  promptly  settled  by  receiving  "cash  in 
full "  at  the  last  date.  But  perhaps  not  so  set 
tled  altogether.  These  were  the  necessaries  of 
life  in  those  days ;  with  salmon,  shad,  and  ale- 
wives,  fresh  and  pickled,  he  was  thereafter  in 
dependent  on  the  groceries.  Kather  a  prepon 
derance  of  the  fluid  elements ;  but  such  is  the 
fisherman's  nature.  I  can  faintly  remember  to 
have  seen  this  same  fisher  in  my  earliest  youth, 
still  as  near  the  river  as  he  could  get,  with  un 
certain,  undulatory  step,  after  so  many  things 
had  gone  downstream,  swinging  a  scythe  in  the 
meadow,  his  bottle  like  a  serpent  hid  in  the 
grass ;  himself  as  yet  not  cut  down  by  the  Great 
Mower. 

Surely  the  fates  are  forever  kind,  though  Na 
ture's  laws  are  more  immutable  than  any  des 
pot's,  yet  to  man's  daily  life  they  rarely  seem 
rigid,  but  permit  him  to  relax  with  license  in 
summer  weather.  He  is  not  harshly  reminded 


SATURDAY  43 

of  the  things  he  may  not  do.  She  is  very  kind 
and  liberal  to  all  men  of  vicious  habits,  and 
certainly  does  not  deny  them  quarter;  they  do 
not  die  without  priest.  Still  they  maintain  life 
along  the  way,  keeping  this  side  the  Styx,  still 
hearty,  still  resolute,  "never  better  in  their 
lives;"  and  again,  after  a  dozen  years  have 
elapsed,  they  start  up  from  behind  a  hedge, 
asking  for  work  and  wages  for  able-bodied  men. 
Who  has  not  met  such 

"  a  beggar  on  the  way, 
Who  sturdily  could  gang  ?  .  .  . 
Who  cared  neither  for  wind  nor  wet, 
In  lands  where'er  he  past  ?  " 

"  That  bold  adopts  each  house  he  views,  his  own ; 
Makes  every  purse  his  checquer,  and,  at  pleasure, 
Walks  forth,  and  taxes  all  the  world,  like  Caesar ;"  — 

as  if  consistency  were  the  secret  of  health,  while 
the  poor  inconsistent  aspirant  man,  seeking  to 
live  a  pure  life,  feeding  on  air,  divided  against 
himself,  cannot  stand,  but  pines  and  dies  after 
a  life  of  sickness,  on  beds  of  down. 

The  unwise  are  accustomed  to  speak  as  if 
some  were  not  sick ;  but  methinks  the  difference 
between  men  in  respect  to  health  is  not  great 
enough  to  lay  much  stress  upon.  Some  are 
reputed  sick  and  some  are  not.  It  often  hap- 
pens  that  the  sicker  man  is  the  nurse  Jfcojbhe 


44  A   WEEK 

Shad  are  still  taken  in  the  basin  of  Concord 
River,  at  Lowell,  where  they  are  said  to  be  a 
month  earlier  than  the  Merrimack  shad,  on  ac 
count  of  the  warmth  of  the  water.  Still  pa 
tiently,  almost  pathetically,  with  instinct  not  to 
be  discouraged,  not  to  be  reasoned  with,  revis 
iting  their  old  haunts,  as  if  their  stern  fates 
would  relent,  and  still  met  by  the  Cktcporatipn 
with  its  dam.  Poor  shad !  where  is  thy  redress  ? 
When  Nature  gave  thee  instinct,  gave  she  thee 
the  heart  to  bear  thy  fate?  Still  wandering  the 
sea  in  thy  scaly  armor  to  inquire  humbly  at  the 
mouths  of  rivers  if  man  has  perchance  left  them 
free  for  thee  to  enter.  By  countless  shoals  loi 
tering  uncertain  meanwhile,  merely  stemming 
the  tide  there,  in  danger  from  sea  foes  in  spite 
of  thy  bright  armor,  awaiting  new  instructions, 
until  the  sands,  until  the  water  itself,  tell  thee 
if  it  be  so  or  not.  Thus  by  whole  migrating 
nations,  full  of  JnstinctT  which  is  thy  faith,T  in 
this  backward  spring,  turned  adrift,  and  per 
chance  knowest  not  where  men  do  not  dwell, 
where  there  are  not  factories,  in  these  days. 
Armed  with  no  sword,  no  electric  shock,  but 
mere  Shad,  ^armfid-o.nly  with  innocence  and  a 
_just_caiise,  with  tender  dumb  mouth  only  for 
ward,  and  scales  easy  to  be  detached.  I  for  one 
am  with  thee,  and  who  knows  what  may  avail  a 
crow-bar  against  that  Billerica  dam?  —  Not  de- 


SATURDAY  45 

spairing  when  whole  myriads  have  gone  to  feed 
those  sea  monsters  during  thy  suspense,  but 
still  brave,  indifferent,  on  easy  fin  there,  like 
shad  reserved  for  higher  destinies.  Willing  to 
be  decimated  for  man's  behoof  after  the  spawn 
ing  season.  Away  with  the  superficial  and  self 
ish  phil-anthropy  of  men,  —  who  knows  what 
admirable  virtue  of  fishes  may  be  below  low- 
water-mark,  bearing  up  against  a  hard  destiny, 
not  admired  by  that  fellow-creature  who  alone 
can  appreciate  it !  Who  hears  the  fishes  when 
they  cry?  It  will  not  be  forgotten  by  some 
memory  that  we  were  contemporaries.  Thou 
shalt  erelong  have  thy  way  up  the  rivers,  up  all 
the  rivers  of  the  globe,  if  I  am  not  mistaken. 
Yea,  even  thy  dull  watery  dream  shall  be  more 
than  realized.  If  it  were  not  so,  but  thou  wert 
to  be  overlooked  at  first  and  at  last,  then  would 
not  I  take  their  heaven.  Yes,  I  say  so,  who 
think  I  know  better  than  thou  canst.  Keep  a 
stiff  fin,  then,  and  stem  all  the  tides  thou  mayst 
meet. 

At  length  it  would  seem  that  the  interests, 
not  of  the  fishes  only,  but  of  the  men  of  Way- 
land,  of  Sudbury,  of  Concord,  demand  the 
leveling  of  that  dam.  Innumerable  acres  of 
meadow  are  waiting  to  be  made  dry  land,  wild 
native  grass  to  give  place  to  English.  The 
farmers  stand  with  scythes  whet,  waiting  the 


46  A   WEEK 

subsiding  of  the  waters,  by  gravitation,  by 
evaporation,  or  otherwise,  but  sometimes  their 
eyes  do  not  rest,  their  wheels  do  not  roll,  on  the 
quaking  meadow  ground  during  the  haying  sea 
son  at  all.  So  many  sources  of  wealth  inacces 
sible.  They  rate  the  loss  hereby  incurred  in 
the  single  town  of  Wayland  alone  as  equal  to 
the  expense  of  keeping  a  hundred  yoke  of  oxen 
the  year  round.  One  year,  as  I  learn,  not  long 
ago,  the  farmers  standing  ready  to  drive  their 
teams  afield  as  usual,  the  water  gave  no  signs  of 
falling;  without  new  attraction  in  the  heavens, 
without  freshet  or  visible  cause,  still  standing 
stagnant  at  an  unprecedented  height.  All  hy 
drometers  were  at  fault ;  some  trembled  for  their 
English,  even.  But  speedy  emissaries  revealed 
the  unnatural  secret,  in  the  new  float-board, 
wholly  a  foot  in  width,  added  to  their  already 
too  high  privileges  by  the  dam  proprietors. 
The  hundred  yoke  of  oxen,  meanwhile,  standing 
patient,  gazing  wishfully  meadowward,  at  that 
inaccessible  waving  native  grass,  uncut  but  by 
the  grgat  TMQWftT-  J^inm,  who  cuts  so  broad  a 
swathe,  without  so  much  as  a  wisp  to  wind 
about  their  horns. 

That  was  a  long  pull  from  Ball's  Hill  to  Car 
lisle  Bridge,  sitting  with  our  faces  to  the  south, 
a  slight  breeze  rising  from  the  north;  but  nev- 


SATURDAY  47 

ertheless  water  still  runs  and  grass  grows,  for 
now,  having  passed  the  bridge  between  Carlisle 
and  Bedford,  we  see  men  haying  far  off  in 
the  meadow,  their  heads  waving  like  the  grass 
which  they  cut.  In  the  distance  the  wind 
seemed  to  bend  all  alike.  As  the  night  stole 
over,  such  a  freshness  was  wafted  across  the 
meadow  that  every  blade  of  cut  grass  seemed 
to  teem  with  life.  Faint  purple  clouds  began 
to  be  reflected  in  the  water,  and  the  cow-bells 
tinkled  louder  along  the  banks,  while,  like  sly 
water-rats,  we  stole  along  nearer  the  shore, 
looking  for  a  place  to  pitch  our  camp. 

At  length,  when  we  had  made  about  seven 
miles,  as  far  as  Billerica,  we  moored  our  boat 
on  the  west  side  of  a  little  rising  ground  which 
in  the  spring  forms  an  island  in  the  river. 
Here  we  found  huckleberries  still  hanging  upon 
the  bushes,  where  they  seemed  to  have  slowly 
ripened  for  our  especial  use.  Bread  and  sugar, 
and  cocoa  boiled  in  river  water,  made  our  re 
past,  and  as  we  had  drank  in  the  fluvial  pros 
pect  all  day,  so  now  we  took  a  draft  of  the 
water  with  our  evening  meal  to  propitiate  the 
river  gods,  and  whet  our  vision  for  the  sights  it 
was  to  behold.  The  sun  was  setting  on  the  one 
hand,  while  our  eminence  was  contributing  its 
shadow  to  the  night  on  the  other.  It  seemed 
insensibly  to  grow  lighter  as  the  night  shut  in, 


48  A  WEEK 

and  a  distant  and  solitary  farm-house  was  re 
vealed,  which  before  lurked  in  the  shadows  of 
the  noon.  There  was  no  other  house  in  sight, 
nor  any  cultivated  field.  To  the  right  and  left, 
as  far  as  the  horizon,  were  straggling  pine  wood; 
with  their  plumes  against  the  sky,  and  acros;^ 
the  river  were  rugged  hills,  covered  with  shrub 
oaks,  tangled  with  grape-vines  and  ivy,  with 
here  and  there  a  gray  rock  jutting  out  from  the 
maze.  The  sides  of  these  cliffs,  though  a  quar 
ter  of  a  mile  distant,  were  almost  heard  to  rustle 
while  we  looked  at  them,  it  was  such  a  leafy 
wilderness;  a  place  for  fauns  and  satyrs,  and 
where  bats  hung  all  day  to  the  rocks,  and  at 
evening  flitted  over  the  water,  and  fire -flies 
husbanded  their  light  under  the  grass  and  leaves 
against  the  night.  When  we  had  pitched  our 
tent  on  the  hillside,  a  few  rods  from  the  shore, 
we  sat  looking  through  its  triangular  door  in 
the  twilight  at  our  lonely  mast  on  the  shore  just 
seen  above  the  alders,  and  hardly  yet  come  to  a 
standstill  from  the  swaying  of  the  stream ;  the 
first  encroachment  of  commerce  on  this  land. 
There  was  our  port,  our  Ostia.  That  straight, 
geometrical  line  against  the  water  and  the  sky 
stood  for  the  last  refinements  of  civilized  life, 
and  what  of  sublimity  there  is  in  history  was 
there  symbolized. 

For  the  most  part,  there  was  no  recognition 


SATURDAY  49 

of  human  life  in  the  night,  no  human  breathing 
was  heard,  only  the  breathing  of  the  wind.  As 
we  sat  up,  kept  awake  by  the  novelty  of  our 
situation,  we  heard  at  intervals  foxes  stepping 
about  over  the  dead  leaves,  and  brushing  the 
dewy  grass  close  to  our  tent,  and  once  a  mus 
quash  fumbling  among  the  potatoes  and  melons 
in  our  boat;  but  when  we  hastened  to  the  shore 
we  could  detect  only  a  ripple  in  the  water  ruf 
fling  the  disk  of  a  star.  At  intervals  we  were 
serenaded  by  the  song  of  a  dreaming  sparrow  or 
the  throttled  cry  of  an  owl;  but  after  each  sound 
which  near  at  hand  broke  the  stillness  of  the 
night,  each  crackling  of  the  twigs,  or  rustling 
among  the  leaves,  there  was  a  sudden  pause, 
and  deeper  and  more  conscious  silence,  as  if  the 
intruder  were  aware  that  no  life  was  rightfully 
abroad  at  that  hour.  There  was  a  fire  in  Low 
ell,  as  we  judged,  this  night,  and  we  saw  the 
horizon  blazing,  and  heard  the  distant  alarm- 
bells,  as  it  were  a  faint  tinkling  music  borne 
to  these  woods.  But  the  most  constant  and 
memorable  sound  of  a  summer's  night,  which 
we  did  not  fail  to  hear  every  night  afterward, 
though  at  no  time  so  incessantly  and  so  favor 
ably  as  now,  was  the  barking  of  the  house-dogs, 
from  the  loudest  and  hoarsest  bark  to  the  faint 
est  aerial  palpitation  under  the  eaves  of  heaven, 
from  the  patient  but  anxious  mastiff  to  the  timid 


50  A   WEEK 

and  wakeful  terrier,  at  first  loud  and  rapid, 
then  faint  and  slow,  to  be  imitated  only  in  a 
whisper ;  wow-wow-wow-wow — wo — wo — w — w. 
Even  in  a  retired  and  uninhabited  district  like 
this,  it  was  a  sufficiency  of  sound  for  the  ear  of 
night,  and  more  impressive  than  any  music.  I 
have  heard  the  voice  of  a  hound,  just  before 
daylight,  while  the  stars  were  shining,  from 
over  the  woods  and  river,  far  in  the  horizon, 
when  it  sounded  as  sweet  and  melodious  as  an 
instrument.  The  hounding  of  a  dog  pursuing 
a  fox  or  other  animal  in  the  horizon  may  have 
first  suggested  the  notes  of  the  hunting-horn 
to  alternate  with  and  relieve  the  lungs  of  the 
dog.  This  natural  bugle  long  resounded  in  the 
woods  of  the  ancient  world  before  the  horn  was 
invented.  The  very  dogs  that  sullenly  bay  the 
moon  from  farm-yards  in  these  nights  excite 
more  heroism  in  our  breasts  than  all  the  civil 
exhortations  or  war  sermons  of  the  age.  "I 
would  rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  moon,"  than 
many  a  Roman  that  I  know.  The  night  is 
equally  indebted  to  the  clarion  of  the  cock,  with 
wakeful  hope,  from  the  very  setting  of  the  sun, 
prematurely  ushering  in  the  dawn.  All  these 
sounds,  the  crowing  of  cocks,  the  baying  of 
dogs,  and  the  hum  of  insects  at  noon,  are  the 
evidence  of  nature's  health  or  sound  state. 
Such  is  the  never-failing  beauty  and  accuracy 


SATURDAY  51 

of  language,  the  most  perfect  art  in  the  world; 
the  chisel  of  a  thousand  years  retouches  it. 

At  length  the  antepenultimate  and  drowsy 
hours  drew  on,  and  all  sounds  were  denied  en 
trance  to  our  ears. 

Who  sleeps  by  day  and  walks  by  night, 
Will  meet  no  spirit,  but  some  sprite. 


SUNDAY. 

H  The  river  calmly  flows, 
Through  shining  banks,  through  lonely  glen, 
Where  the  owl  shrieks,  though  ne'er  the  cheer  of  men 

Has  stirred  its  mute  repose, 
Still  if  you  should  walk  there,  you  would  go  there  again." 

CHANNINO. 

**  The  Indians  tell  us  of  a  beautiful  river  lying  far  to  the  south,  which 
they  call  Merrimack."  —  SIETJB  DR  MONTS,  Relations  of  the  Jesuits,  1604. 

IN  the  morning  the  river  and  adjacent  coun 
try  were  covered  with  a  dense  fog,  through 
which  the  smoke  of  our  fire  curled  up  like  a  still 
subtiler  mist;  but  before  we  had  rowed  many 
rods,  the  sun  arose  and  the  fog  rapidly  dis 
persed,  leaving  a  slight  steam  only  to  curl  along 
the  surface  of  the  water.  It  was  a  quiet  Sun 
day  morning,  with  more  of  the  auroral  rosy  and 
white  than  of  the  yellow  light  in  it,  as  if  it 
.dated,  from  earlier  than  the  fall  of  man,  and 
still  preserved  a  heathenish  integrity :  — 

An  early  unconverted  Saint, 

Free  from  noontide  or  evening  taint, 

Heathen  without  reproach, 

That  did  upon  the  civil  day  encroach, 

And  ever  since  its  birth 

Had  trod  the  outskirts  of  the  earth. 

But  the  impressions  which  the  morning  makes 


54  A   WEEK 

vanish  with  its  dews,  and  not  even  the  most 
"persevering  mortal"  can  preserve  the  memory 
of  its  freshness  to  midday.  As  we  passed  the 
various  islands,  or  what  were  islands  in  the 
spring,  rowing  with  our  backs  downstream,  we 
gave  names  to  them.  The  one  on  which  we  had 
camped  we  called  Fox  Island,  and  one  fine 
densely  wooded  island  surrounded  by  deep  water 
and  overrun  by  grape-vines,  which  looked  like 
a  mass  of  verdure  and  of  flowers  cast  upon  the 
waves,  we  named  Grape  Island.  From  Ball's 
Hill  to  Billerica  meeting-house,  the  river  was 
still  twice  as  broad  as  in  Concord,  a  deep,  dark, 
and  dead  stream,  flowing  between  gentle  hills 
and  sometimes  cliffs,  and  well  wooded  all  the 
way.  It  was  a  long  woodland  lake  bordered 
with  willows.  For  long  reaches  we  could  see 
neither  house  nor  cultivated  field,  nor  any  sign 
of  the  vicinity  of  man.  Now  we  coasted  along 
some  shallow  shore  by  the  edge  of  a  dense  pali 
sade  of  bulrushes,  which  straightly  bounded  the 
water  as  if  clipped  by  art,  reminding  us  of  the 
reed  forts  of  the  East-Indians  of  which  we  had 
read;  and  now  the  bank,  slightly  raised,  was 
overhung  with  graceful  grasses  and  various 
species  of  brake,  whose  downy  stems  stood 
closely  grouped  and  naked  as  in  a  vase,  while 
their  heads  spread  several  feet  on  either  side. 
The  dead  limbs  of  the  willow  were  rounded  and 


SUNDAY  55 

adorned  by  the  climbing  mikania  {Mikania 
scandens),  which  filled  every  crevice  in  the  leafy 
bank,  contrasting  agreeably  with  the  gray  bark 
of  its  supporter  and  the  balls  of  the  button -bush. 
The  water  willow  (Salix  Purshiana),  when  it  is 
of  large  size  and  entire,  is  the  most  graceful 
and  ethereal  of  our  trees.  Its  masses  of  light- 
green  foliage,  piled  one  upon  another  to  the 
height  of  twenty  or  thirty  feet,  seemed  to  float 
on  the  surface  of  the  water,  while  the  slight 
gray  stems  and  the  shore  were  hardly  visible 
between  them.  No  tree  is  so  wedded  to  the 
water,  and  harmonizes  so  well  with  still  streams. 
It  is  even  more  graceful  than  the  weeping  wil 
low,  or  any  pendulous  trees  which  dip  their 
branches  in  the  stream  instead  of  being  buoyed 
up  by  it.  Its  limbs  curved  outward  over  the 
surface  as  if  attracted  by  it.  It  had  not  a  New 
England  but  an  Oriental  character,  reminding 
us  of  trim  Persian  gardens,  of  Haroun  Al- 
raschid,  and  the  artificial  lakes  of  the  East. 

As  we  thus  dipped  our  way  along  between 
fresh  masses  of  foliage  overrun  with  the  grape 
and  smaller  flowering  vines,  the  surface  was  so 
calm,  and  both  air  and  water  so  transparent, 
that  the  flight  of  a  kingfisher  or  robin  over  the 
river  was  as  distinctly  seen  reflected  in  the 
water  below  as  in  the  air  above.  The  birds 
seemed  to  flit  through  submerged  groves,  alight* 


56  A   WEEK 

ing  on  the  yielding  sprays,  and  their  clear  notes 
to  come  up  from  below.  We  were  uncertain 
whether  the  water  floated  the  land,  or  the  land 
held  the  water  in  its  bosom.  It  was  such  a  sea 
son,  in  short,  as  that  in  which  one  of  our  Con 
cord  poets  sailed  on  its  stream,  and  sung  its 
quiet  glories. 

"  There  is  an  inward  voice,  that  in  the  stream 
Sends  forth  its  spirit  to  the  listening  ear, 
And  in  a  calm  content  it  floweth  on, 
Like  wisdom,  welcome  with  its  own  respect. 
Clear  in  its  breast  lie  all  these  beauteous  thoughts, 
It  doth  receive  the  green  and  graceful  trees, 
And  the  gray  rocks  smile  in  its  peaceful  arms." 

And  more  he  sung,  but  too  serious  for  our  page. 
For  every  oak  and  birch,  too,  growing  on  the 
hill-top,  as  well  as  for  these  elms  and  willows, 
we  knew  that  there  was  a  graceful  ethereal  and 
ideal  tree  making  down  from  the  roots,  and 
sometimes  Nature  in  high  tides  brings  her  mir^ 
ror  to  its  foot  and  makes  it  visible.  The  still- 
ness  was  intense  and  almost  conscious,  as  if  it 
were  a  natural  Sabbath,  and  we  fancied  that 
the  morning  was  the  evening  of  a  celestial  day. 
The  air  was  so  elastic  and  crystalline  that  it 
had  the  same  effect  on  the  landscape  that  a  glass 
has  on  a  picture,  to  give  it  an  ideal  remoteness 
and  perfection.  The  landscape  was  clothed 
in  a  mild  and  quiet  light,  in  which  the  woods 
and  fences  checkered  and  partitioned  it  with 


SUNDAY  57 

new  regularity,  and  rough  and  uneven  fields 
stretched  away  with  lawn-like  smoothness  to 
the  horizon,  and  the  clouds,  finely  distinct  and 
picturesque,  seemed  a  fit  drapery  to  hang  over 
fairy-land.  The  world  seemed  decked  for  some 
holiday  or  prouder  pageantry,  with  silken 
streamers  flying,  and  the  course  of  our  lives  to 
wind  on  before  us  like  a  green  lane  into  a  coun 
try  maze,  at  the  season  when  fruit-trees  are  in 
blossom. 

Why  should  not  our  whole  life  and  its  scenery 
be  actually  thus  fair  and  distinct?  All  our 
lives  want  a  suitable  background.  They  should 
at  least,  like  the  life  of  the  anchorite,  be  as  im 
pressive  to  behold  as  objects  in  the  desert,  a 
broken  shaft  or  crumbling  mound  against  a  lim 
itless  horizon.  Character  always  secures  for 
itself  this  advantage,  and  is  thus  distinct  and 
unrelated  to  near  or  trivial  objects,  whether 
things  or  persons.  On  this  same  stream  a 
maiden  once  sailed  in  my  boat,  thus  unattended 
but  by  invisible  guardians,  and  as  she  sat  in  the 
prow  there  was  nothing  but  herself  between  the 
steersman  and  the  sky.  I  could  then  say  with 
the  poet, — 

"  Sweet  falls  the  summer  air 
Over  her  frame  who  sails  with  me ; 
Her  way  like  that  is  beautifully  free, 

Her  nature  far  more  rare, 
And  is  her  constant  heart  of  virgin  purity." 


58  A   WEEK 

At  evening,  still  the  very  stars  seem  but  this 
maiden's  emissaries  and  reporters  of  her  prog 
ress. 

Low  in  the  eastern  sky 
Is  set  thy  glancing  eye ; 
And  though  its  gracious  light 
Ne'er  riseth  to  my  sight, 
Yet  every  star  that  climbs 
Above  the  gnarled  limbs 

Of  yonder  hill, 
Conveys  thy  gentle  will. 

Believe  I  knew  thy  thought, 
And  that  the  zephyrs  brought 
Thy  kindest  wishes  through, 
As  mine  they  bear  to  you, 
That  some  attentive  cloud 
Did  pause  amid  the  crowd 

Over  my  head, 
While  gentle  things  were  said. 

Believe  the  thrushes  sung, 
And  that  the  flower-bells  rung1, 
That  herbs  exhaled  their  scent, 
And  beasts  knew  what  was  meant, 
The  trees  a  welcome  waved, 
And  lakes  their  margins  laved, 

When  thy  free  mind 
To  my  retreat  did  wind. 

It  was  a  summer  eve, 
The  air  did  gently  heave 
While  yet  a  low-hung  cloud 
Thy  eastern  skies  did  shroud  ; 
The  lightning's  silent  gleam, 
Startling  my  drowsy  dream, 

Seemed  like  the  flash 
Under  thy  dark  eyelash. 


SUNDAY  69 

Still  will  I  strive  to  be 
As  if  thou  wert  with  me ; 
Whatever  path  I  take, 
It  shall  be,  for  thy  sake, 
Of  gentle  slope  and  wide, 
As  thou  wert  by  my  side, 

Without  a  root 
To  trip  thy  gentle  foot. 

I  '11  walk  with  gentle  pace, 
And  choose  the  smoothest  place 
And  careful  dip  the  oar, 
And  shun  the  winding  shore, 
And  gently  steer  my  boat 
Where  water-lilies  float, 

And  cardinal  flowers 
Stand  in  their  sylvan  bowers. 

It  required  some  rudeness  to  disturb  with  our 
boat  the  mirror-like  surface  of  the  water,  in 
which  every  twig  and  blade  of  grass  was  so 
faithfully  reflected;  too  faithfully  indeed  for 
art  to  imitate,  for  only  Nature  may  exaggerate 
herself.  The  shallowest  still  water  is  unfathom 
able.  Wherever  the  trees  and  skies  are  re 
flected,  there  is  more  than  Atlantic  depth,  and 
no  danger  of  fancy  running  aground.  We  no 
tice  that  it  required  a  separate  intention  of  the 
eye,  a  more  free  and  abstracted  vision,  to  see 
the  reflected  trees  and  the  sky,  than  to  see  the 
river  bottom  merely ;  and  so  are  there  manifold 
visions  in  the  direction  of  every  object,  and 
even  the  most  opaque  reflect  the  heavens  from 
their  surface.  Some  men  have  their  eyes  natu- 


60  A   WEEK 

rally  intended  to  the  one  and  some  to  the  other 
object. 

"  A  man  that  looks  on  glass, 

On  it  may  stay  his  eye, 
Or,  if  he  pleaseth,  through  it  pass, 
And  the  heavens  espy." 

Two  men  in  a  skiff,  whom  we  passed  here 
abouts,  floating  buoyantly  amid  the  reflections 
of  the  trees,  like  a  feather  in  mid-air,  or  a  leaf 
which  is  wafted  gently  from  its  twig  to  the 
water  without  turning  over,  seemed  still  in 
their  element,  and  to  have  very  delicately 
availed  themselves  of  the  natural  laws.  Their 
floating  there  was  a  beautiful  and  successful 
experiment  in  natural  philosophy,  and  it  served 
to  ennoble  in  our  eyes  the  art  of  navigation; 
for  as  birds  fly  and  fishes  swim,  so  these  men 
sailed.  It  reminded  us  how  much  fairer  and 
nobler  all  the  actions  of  man  might  be,  and 
that  ^our  life  in  its  whole  economy  might  be  as 
JbeautifuTas  the^afrest  works  of  art  or  nature. 

The  sun  lodged  on  the  old  gray  cliffs,  ancl 
glanced  from  every  pad;  the  bulrushes  and 
flags  seemed  to  rejoice  in  the  delicious  light 
and  air;  the  meadows  were  a-drinking  at  their 
leisure;  the  frogs  sat  meditating,  all  sabbath 
thoughts,  summing  up  their  week,  with  one  eye 
out  on  the  golden  sun,  and  one  toe  upon  a  reed, 
eying  the  wondrous  universe  in  which  they  act 


SUNDAY  61 

their  part;  the  fishes  swam  more  staid  and 
soberly,  as  maidens  go  to  church;  shoals  of 
golden  and  silver  minnows  rose  to  the  surface  to 
behold  the  heavens,  and  then  sheered  off  into 
more  sombre  aisles ;  they  swept  by  as  if  moved 
by  one  mind,  continually  gliding  past  each 
other,  and  yet  preserving  the  form  of  their  bat 
talion  unchanged,  as  if  they  were  still  embraced 
by  the  transparent  membrane  which  held  the 
spawn;  a  young  band  of  brethren  and  sisters 
trying  their  new  fins;  now  they  wheeled,  now 
shot  ahead,  and  when  we  drove  them  to  the 
shore  and  cut  them  off,  they  dexterously  tacked 
and  passed  underneath  the  boat.  Over  the  old 
wooden  bridges  no  traveler  crossed,  and  neither 
the  river  nor  the  fishes  avoided  to  glide  between 
the  abutments. 

Here  was  a  village  not  far  off  behind  the 
woods,  Billerica,  settled  not  long  ago,  and  the 
children  still  bear  the  names  of  the  first  settlers 
in  this  late  "howling  wilderness; "  yet  to  all  in 
tents  and  purposes  it  is  as  old  as  Fernay  or  as 
Mantua,  an  old  gray  town  whp.rp.  mp.n  grow  p)d 
.and  slftpp  already^-under  moss-£rown_  monu 
ments^ —  outgrow  their  usefulness.  This  is  an 
cient  Billerica  ( Villarica  ?),  now  in  its  dotage, 
named  from  the  English  Billericay,  and  whose 
Indian  name  was  Shawshine.  I  never  heard 
that  it  was  young.  See,  is  not  nature  here  gone 


62  A   WEEK 

to  decay,  farms  all  run  out,  meeting-house 
grown  gray  and  racked  with  age  ?  If  you  would 
know  of  its  early  youth,  ask  those  old  gray 
rocks  in  the  pasture.  It  has  a  bell  that  sounds 
sometimes  as  far  as  Concord  woods;  I  have 
heard  that,  —  ay,  hear  it  now.  No  wonder  that 
such  a  sound  startled  the  dreaming  Indian,  and 
frightened  his  game,  when  the  first  bells  were 
swung  on  trees,  and  sounded  through  the  forest 
beyond  the  plantations  of  the  white  man;  but 
to-day  I  like  best  the  echo  amid  these  cliffs  and 
woods.  It  is  no  feeble  imitation,  but  rather  its 
original,  or  as  if  some  rural  Orpheus  played 
over  the  strain  again  to  show  how  it  should 
sound. 

Dong,  sounds  the  brass  in  the  east, 
As  if  to  a  funeral  feast, 
But  I  like  that  sound  the  best 
Out  of  the  fluttering  west. 

The  steeple  ringeth  a  knell, 
But  the  fairies'  silvery  bell 
Is  the  voice  of  that  gentle  folk, 
Or  else  the  horizon  that  spoke. 

Its  metal  is  not  of  brass, 
But  air,  and  water,  and  glass, 
And  under  a  cloud  it  is  swung, 
And  by  the  wind  it  is  rung. 

When  the  steeple  tolleth  the  noon, 

It  soundeth  not  so  soon, 

Yet  it  rings  a  far  earlier  hour, 

And  the  sun  has  not  reached  its  tower. 


SUNDAY  63 

On  the  other  hand,  the  road  runs  up  to  Car 
lisle,  city  of  the  woods,  which,  if  it  is  less  civil, 
is  the  more  natural.  It  does  well  hold  the  earth 
together.  It  gets  laughed  at  because  it  is  a 
small  town,  I  know,  but  nevertheless  it  is  a 
place  where  great  men  may  be  born  any  day, 
for  fair  winds  and  foul  blow  right  on  over  it 
without  distinction.  It  has  a  meeting-house 
and  horse-sheds,  a  tavern  and  a  blacksmith's 
shop,  for  centre,  and  a  good  deal  of  wood  to  cut 
and  cord  yet.  And 

"  Bedford,  most  noble  Bedford, 
I  shall  not  thee  forget." 

History  has  remembered  thee;  especially  that 
meek  and  humble  petition  of  thy  old  planters, 
like  the  wailing  of  the  Lord's  own  people,  "To 
the  gentlemen,  the  selectmen"  of  Concord, 
praying  to  be  erected  into  a  separate  parish. 
We  can  hardly  credit  that  so  plaintive  a  psalm 
resounded  but  little  more  than  a  century  ago 
along  these  Babylonish  waters.  "In  the  ex 
treme  difficult  seasons  of  heat  and  cold,"  said 
they,  "we  were  ready  to  say  of  the  Sabbath, 
Behold  what  a  weariness  is  it."  "Gentlemen, 
if  our  seeking  to  draw  off  proceed  from  any  dis 
affection  to  our  present  Reverend  Pastor,  or  the 
Christian  Society  with  whom  we  have  taken 
such  sweet  counsel  together,  and  walked  unto 
the  house  of  God  in  company,  then  hear  us  not 


64  A   WEEK 

this  day ;  but  we  greatly  desire,  if  God  please, 
to  be  eased  of  our  burden  on  the  Sabbath,  the 
travel  and  fatigue  thereof,  that  the  word  of  God 
may  be  nigh  to  us,  near  to  our  houses  and  in 
our  hearts,  that  we  and  our  little  ones  may  serve 
the  Lord.  We  hope  that  God,  who  stirred  up 
the  spirit  of  Cyrus  to  set  forward  temple  work, 
has  stirred  us  up  to  ask,  and  will  stir  you  up  to 
grant,  the  prayer  of  our  petition ;  so  shall  your 
humble  petitioners  ever  pray,  as  in  duty 
bound" —  And  so  the  temple  work  went  for 
ward  here  to  a  happy  conclusion.  Yonder  in 
Carlisle  the  building  of  the  temple  was  many 
wearisome  years  delayed,  not  that  there  was 
wanting  of  Shittim  wood,  or  the  gold  of  Ophir, 
but  a  site  therefor  convenient  to  all  the  wor 
shipers;  whether  on  "Buttrick's  Plain,"  or 
rather  on  "Poplar  Hill."  It  was  a  tedious 
question. 

In  this  Billerica  solid  men  must  have  lived, 
select  from  year  to  year ;  a  series  of  town  clerks, 
at  least ;  and  there  are  old  records  that  you  may 
search.  Some  spring  the  white  man  came,  built 
him  a  house,  and  made  a  clearing  here,  letting 
in  the  sun,  dried  up  a  farm,  piled  up  the  old 
gray  stones  in  fences,  cut  down  the  pines  around 
his  dwelling,  planted  orchard  seeds  brought 
from  the  old  country,  and  persuaded  the  civil 
apple-tree  to  blossom  next  to  the  wild  pine  and 


SUNDAY  65 

the  juniper,  shedding  its  perfume  in  the  wilder 
ness.  Their  old  stocks  still  remain.  He  culled 
the  graceful  elm  from  out  the  woods  and  from 
the  river-side,  and  so  refined  and  smoothed  his 
village  plot.  He  rudely  bridged  the  stream, 
and  drove  his  team  afield  into  the  river  mea 
dows,  cut  the  wild  grass,  and  laid  bare  the  homes 
of  beaver,  otter,  muskrat,  and  with  the  whetting 
of  his  scythe  scared  off  the  deer  and  bear.  He 
set  up  a  mill,  and  fields  of  English  grain  sprang 
in  the  virgin  soil.  And  with  his  grain  he  scat 
tered  the  seeds  of  the  dandelion  and  the  wild 
trefoil  over  the  meadows,  mingling  his  English 
flowers  with  the  wild  native  ones.  The  brist 
ling  burdock,  the  sweet-scented  catnip,  and  the 
humble  yarrow  planted  themselves  along  his 
woodland  road,  they,  too,  seeking  "freedom  to 
worship  God"  in  their  way.  And  thus  he 
plants  a  town.  The  white  man's  mullein  soon 
reigned  in  Indian  cornfields,  and  sweet-scented 
English  grasses  clothed  the  new  soil.  Where, 
then,  could  the  Red  Man  set  his  foot?  The 
honey-bee  hummed  through  the  Massachusetts 
woods,  and  sipped  the  wild-flowers  round  the 
Indian's  wigwam,  perchance  unnoticed,  when, 
with  prophetic  warning,  it  stung  the  Red  child's 
hand,  forerunner  of  that  industrious  tribe  that 
was  to  come  and  pluck  the  wild-flower  of  his 
race  up  by  the  root. 


66  A   WEEK 

The  white  man  comes,  pale  as  the  dawn,  with 
a  load  of  thought,  with  a  slumbering  intelligence 
as  a  fire  raked  up,  knowing  well  what  he  knows, 
not  guessing  but  calculating ;  strong  in  commu 
nity,  yielding  obedience  to  authority;  of  expe 
rienced  race;  of  wonderful,  wonderful  common 
sense;  dull  but  capable,  slow  but  persevering, 
severe  but  just,  of  little  humor  but  genuine ;  a 
laboring  man,  despising  game  and  sport ;  build 
ing  a  house  that  endures,  a  framed  house.  He 
buys  the  Indian's  moccasins  and  baskets,  then 
buys  his  hunting-grounds,  and  at  length  forgets 
where  he  is  buried  and  ploughs  up  his  bones. 
And  here  town  records,  old,  tattered,  time- 
worn,  weather-stained  chronicles,  contain  the 
Indian  sachem's  mark  perchance,  an  arrow  or 
a  beaver,  and  the  few  fatal  words  by  which  he 
deeded  his  hunting-grounds  away.  He  comes 
with  a  list  of  ancient  Saxon,  Norman,  and  Cel 
tic  names,  and  strews  them  up  and  down  this 
river,  —  Framingham,  Sudbury,  Bedford,  Car 
lisle,  Billerica,  Chelmsf ord,  —  and  this  is  New 
Angle-land,  and  these  are  the  New  West  Sax« 
ons,  whom  the  Red  Men  call,  not  Angle-ish  or 
English,  but  Yejigefise,  and  so  at  last  they  are 
known  for  Yankees. 

When  we  were  opposite  to  the  middle  of  Bil 
lerica,  the  fields  on  either  hand  had  a  soft  and 
cultivated  English  aspect,  the  village  spire  be- 


SUNDAY  67 

ing  seen  over  the  copses  which  skirt  the  river, 
and  sometimes  an  orchard  straggled  down  to  the 
water-side,  though,  generally,  our  course  this 
forenoon  was  the  wildest  part  of  our  voyage. 
It  seemed  that  men  led  a  quiet  and  very  civil 
life  there.  The  inhabitants  were  plainly  cul 
tivators  of  the  earth,  and  lived  under  an  or 
ganized  political  government.  The  school-house 
stood  with  a  meek  aspect,  entreating  a  long 
truce  to  war  and  savage  life.  Every  one  finds 
by  his  own  experience,  as  well  as  in  history, 
that  the  era  in  which  men  cultivate  the  apple, 
and  the  amenities  of  the  garden,  is  essentially 
different  from  that  of  the  hunter  and  forest  life, 
and  neither  can  displace  the  other  without  loss. 
We  have  all  had  our  day-dreams,  as  well  as 
more  prophetic  nocturnal  vision;  but  as  for 
farming.  I  am  convinced  that  my  genius  dates 
from  an  older  era  than  the  agricultural.  I 
would  at  least  strike  my  spade  into  the  earth 
with  such  careless  freedom  but  accuracy  as  the 
— woodpecker  his  bill  into  a  tree.  There  is  in  my 
-nature,  methinks,  a  singular  yearning  toward 
aUjwildness,^  IJsnow ;_p_f_no  redeeming  qualities 
imayself  but  a  sincere  love  for  some  things, 
and  when  I  am  reproved  I  fall  back  on  to  this 
ground.  What  have  I  to  do  with  ploughs?  I 
cut  another  furrow  than  you  see.  Where  the 
off  ox  treads,  there  is  it  not,  it  is  farther  off; 


68  A   WEEK 

where  the  nigh  ox  walks,  it  will  not  be,  it  is 
nigher  still.  If  corn  fails,  my  crop  fails  not, 
and  what  are  drought  and  rain  to  me?  The 
rude  Saxon  pioneer  will  sometimes  pine  for  that 
refinement  and  artificial  beauty  which  are  Eng 
lish,  and  love  to  hear  the  sound  of  such  sweet 
and  classical  names  as  the  Pentland  and  Mal- 
vern  Hills,  the  Cliffs  of  Dover  and  the  Trosachs, 
Richmond,  Derwent,  and  Winandermere,  which 
are  to  him  now  instead  of  the  Acropolis  and 
Parthenon,  of  Baiae,  and  Athens,  with  its  sea 
walls,  and  Arcadia  and  Tempe. 

Greece,  who  am  I  that  should  remember  thee, 

Thy  Marathon  and  thy  Thermopylae  ? 

Is  my  life  vulgar,  my  fate  mean, 

Which  on  these  golden  memories  can  lean  ? 

We  are  apt  enough  to  be  pleased  with  such 
books  as  Evelyn's  Sylva,  Acetarium,  and  Ka- 
lendarium  Hortense,  but  they  imply  a  relaxed 
nerve  in  the  reader.  Gardening  is  cjviL_and. 
social,  but  it  wants  the  vigor  and  freedom  of 
the  forest  and__the  outlaw.  There  may  be  an 
excess  of  cultivation  as  well  as  of  anything 
else,  until  civilization  becomes  pathetic.  A 
highly  cultivated  man,^— all  whose  bones  can 
be  bent!  whose  heaven-born  virtues  are  but 
good  manners !  The  young  pines  springing  up 
in  the  cornfields  from  year  to  year  are  to  me  a 
refreshing  fact.  We  talk  of  civilizing  the  In- 


SUNDAY  69 

dian,  but  that  is  not  the  name  for  his  improve 
ment.  By  the  wary  independence  and  aloofness 
of  his  dim  forest  life  he  preserves  his  intercourse 
with  his  native  gods,  and  is  admitted  from  time 
to  time  to  a  rare  and  peculiar  society  with  Na 
ture.  He  has  glances  of  starry  recognition  to 
jvhich  .Qnr  saloons  are  strangers.  The  steady 
illumination  of  his  genius,  dim  only  because 
distant,  is  like  the  faint  but  satisfying  light  of 
the .  stars-compared  with  the  dazzling  but  inef 
fectual  and  short-lived  blaze  of  candles.  The 
Society-Islanders  had  their  day-born  gods,  but 
they  were  not  supposed  to  be  "of  equal  antiquity 
with  the  atua  fauau  po,  or  night-born  gods." 
It  is  true,  there  are  the  innocent  pleasures  of 
country  life,  and  it  is  sometimes  pleasant  to 
make  the  earth  yield  her  increase,  and  gather 
the  fruits  in  their  season;  but  the  heroic  spirit 
will  not  fail  to  dream  of  remoter  retirements 
and  more  rugged  paths.  It  will  have  its  gar 
den-plots  and  its  parterres  elsewhere  than  on 
the  earth,  and  gather  nuts  and  berries  by  the 
way  for  its  subsistence,  or  orchard  fruits  with 
such  heedlessness  as  berries.  We  would  not 
always  be  soothing  and  taming  nature,  breaking 
the  horse  and  the  ox,  but  sometimes  ride  the 
horse  wild  and  chase  the  buffalo.  The  jndian's 
inte^cjourse  with  Nature  is  at  leastjmch  as  ad- 
jaita_oi_the__greatest  independence  of  each.  If 


70  A  WEEK 

he  is  somewhat  of  a  stranger  in  her  midst,  the 
ner  is  too  much  of  a  familiar.  There  is 
something  vulgar  and  foul  in  the  latter 's  close 
ness  to  his  mistress,  something  noble  and  cleanly 
in_the_former's  distance.  In  civilization,  as  in 
a  southern  latitude,  man  degenerates  at  length, 
and  yields  to  the  incursion  of  more  northern 
tribes,  — 

"  Some  nation  yet  shut  in 
With  hills  of  ice." 

There  are  other,  savager,  and  more  primeval 
aspects  of  nature  than  our  poets  have  sung.  It 
is  only  white  man's  poetry.  Homer  and  Ossian 
even  can  never  revive  in  London  or  Boston. 
And  yet,  behold  how  these  cities  are  refreshed 
by  the  mere  tradition,  or  the  imperfectly  trans 
mitted  fragrance  and  flavor  of  these  wild  fruits. 
If  we  could  listen  but  for  an  instant  to  the 
chant  of  the  Indian  muse,  we  should  understand 
why  he  will  not  exchange  his  savageness  for 
civilization.  Nations  are  not  whimsical.  Steel 
and  blankets  are  strong  temptations;  but  the 
Indian  does  well  to  continue  Indian. 

After  sitting  in  my  chamber  many  days, 
reading  the  poets,  I  have  been  out  early  on  a 
foggy  morning  and  heard  the  cry  of  an  owl  in  a 
neighboring  wood  as  from  a  nature  behind  the 
common,  unexplored  by  science  or  by  literature. 
None  of  the  feathered  race  has  yet  realized  my 


SUNDAY  71 

youthful  conceptions  of  the  woodland  depths. 
I  had  seen  the  red  Election-birds  brought  from 
their  recesses  on  my  comrades'  string,  and  fan 
cied  that  their  plumage  would  assume  stranger 
and  more  dazzling  colors,  like  the  tints  of  even 
ing,  in  proportion  as  I  advanced  farther  into 
the  darkness  and  solitude  of  the  forest.  Still 
less  have  I  seen  such  strong  and  wilderness  tints 
on  any  poet's  string. 

These  modern  ingenious  sciences  and  arts  do 
not  affect  me  as  those  more  venerable  arts  of 
hunting  and  fishing,  and  even  of  husbandry  in 
its  primitive  and  simple  form ;  as  ancient  and 
honorable  trades  as  the  sun  and  moon  and  winds 
pursue,  coeval  with  the  faculties  of  man,  and 
invented  when  these  were  invented.  We  do 
not  know  their  John  Gutenberg,  or  Richard 
Arkwright,  though  the  poets  would  fain  make 
them  to  have  been  gradually  learned  and  taught. 
According  to  Gower,  — 

"  And  laclahel,  as  saith  the  boke, 

Firste  made  nette,  and  fishes  toke. 
Of  huntyng  eke  he  fond  the  chace, 
Whiche  nowe  is  knowe  in  many  place ; 
A  tent  of  clothe,  with  corde  and  stake, 
He  sette  up  first,  and  did  it  make." 

Also,  Lydgate  says :  — 

"  Jason  first  sayled,  in  story  it  is  tolde, 
Toward  Colchos,  to  wynne  the  flees  of  golde, 
Ceres  the  Goddess  fond  first  the  tilthe  of  londe ; 


72  A   WEEK 

Also,  Aristeus  f onde  first  the  usage 

Of  mylke,  and  cruddis,  and  of  honey  swote  ; 

Peryodes,  for  grete  avauntage, 

From  flyntes  smote  fuyre,  daryng  in  the  roote." 

We  read  that  Aristeus  "obtained  of  Jupiter 
and  Neptune,  that  the  pestilential  heat  of  the 
dog-days,  wherein  was  great  mortality,  should 
be  mitigated  with  wind."  This  is  one  of  those 
dateless  benefits  conferred  on  man  which  have 
no  record  in  our  vulgar  day,  though  we  still 
find  some  similitude  to  them  in  our  dreams,  in 
which  we  have  a  more  liberal  and  juster  appre 
hension  of  things,  unconstrained  by  habit, 
which  is  then  in  some  measure  put  off,  and  di 
vested  of  memory,  which  we  call  history. 

According  to  fable,  when  the  island  of  JEgina 
was  depopulated  by  sickness,  at  the  instance  of 
uiEacus,  Jupiter  turned  the  ants  into  men,  that 
is,  as  some  think,  he  made  men  of  the  inhab 
itants  who  lived  meanly  like  ants.  This  is 
perhaps  the  fullest  history  of  those  early  days 
extant. 

The  fable,  which  is  naturally  and  truly  com 
posed,  so  as  to  satisfy  the  imagination,  ere  it 
addresses  the  understanding,  beautiful  though 
strange  as  a  wild -flower,  is  to  the  wise  man 
an  apothegm,  and  admits  of  his  most  generous 
interpretation.  When  we  read  that  Bacchus 


SUNDAY  73 

made  the  Tyrrhenian  mariners  mad,  so  that 
they  leapt  into  the  sea,  mistaking  it  for  a  mea 
dow  full  of  flowers,  and  so  became  dolphins,  we 
are  not  concerned  about  the  historical  truth  of 
this,  but  rather  a  higher  poetical  truth.  We 
seem  to  hear  the  music  of  a  thought,  and  care 
not  if  the  understanding  be  not  gratified.  For 
their  beauty,  consider  the  fables  of  Narcissus, 
of  Endymion,  of  Memnon  son  of  Morning,  the 
representative  of  all  promising  youths  who  have 
died  a  premature  death,  and  whose  memory  is 
melodiously  prolonged  to  the  latest  morning; 
the  beautiful  stories  of  Phaeton,  and  of  the 
Sirens  whose  isle  shone  afar  off  white  with  the 
bones  of  unburied  men ;  and  the  pregnant  ones 
of  Pan,  Prometheus,  and  the  Sphinx ;  and  that 
long  list  of  names  which  have  already  become 
part  of  the  universal  language  of  civilized  men, 
and  from  proper  are  becoming  common  names 
or  nouns,  —  the  Sibyls,  the  Eumenides,  the 
Parcae,  the  Graces,  the  Muses,  Nemesis,  etc. 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  with  what  singu 
lar  unanimity  the  farthest  sundered  nations  and 
generations  consent  to  give  completeness  and 
roundness  to  an  ancient  fable,  of  which  they 
indistinctly  appreciate  the  beauty  or  the  truth. 
By  a  faint  and  dream-like  effort,  though  it  be 
only  by  the  vote  of  a  scientific  body,  the  dullest 
posterity  slowly  add  some  trait  to  the  mythus. 


74  A   WEEK 

As  when  astronomers  call  the  lately  discovered 
planet  Neptune ;  or  the  asteroid  Astrsea,  that  the 
Virgin  who  was  driven  from  earth  to  heaven 
at  the  end  of  the  golden  age  may  have  her 
local  habitation  in  the  heavens  more  distinctly 
assigned  her,  —  for  the  slightest  recognition  of 
poetic  worth  is  significant.  By  such  slow  ag 
gregation  has  mythology  grown  from  the  first. 
The  very  nursery  tales  of  this  generation  were 
the  nursery  tales  of  primeval  races.  They  mi 
grate  from  east  to  west,  and  again  from  west  to 
east;  now  expanded  into  the  "tale  divine  "of 
bards,  now  shrunk  into  a  popular  rhyme.  This 
is  an  approach  to  that  universal  language  which 
men  have  sought  in  vain.  This  fond  reitera 
tion  of  the  oldest  expressions  of  truth  by  the 
latest  posterity,  content  with  slightly  and  reli 
giously  retouching  the  old  material,  is  the  most 
impressive  proof  of  a  common  humanity. 

All  nations  love  the  same  jests  and  tales, 
Jews,  Christians,  and  Mahometans,  and  the 
same  translated  suffice  for  all.  All  men  are 
children,  and  of  one  family.  The  same  tale 
sends  them  all  to  bed,  and  wakes  them  in  the 
morning.  Joseph  Wolff,  the  missionary,  dis 
tributed  copies  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  translated 
into  Arabic,  among  the  Arabs,  and  they  made 
a  great  sensation.  "Robinson  Crusoe's  adven 
tures  and  wisdom,"  says  he,  "were  read  by  Ma- 


SUNDA  Y  75 

hometans  in  the  market-places  of  Sanaa,  Hody- 
eda,  and  Loheya,  and  admired  and  believed!" 
On  reading  the  book,  the  Arabians  exclaimed, 
"Oh,  that  Robinson  Crusoe  must  have  been  a 
great  prophet ! " 

To  some  extent,  mythology  is  only  the  most 
ancient  history  and  biography.  So  far  from 
being  false  or  fabulous  in  the  common  sense,  it 
contains  only  enduring  and  essential  truth,  the 
I  and  you,  the  here  and  there,  the  now  and 
then,  being  omitted.  Either  time  or  rare  wis 
dom  writes  it.  Before  printing  was  discovered, 
a  century  was  equal  to  a  thousand  years.  The 
poet  is  he  who  can  write  some  pure  mythology 
to-day  without  the  aid  of  posterity.  In  how 
few  words,  for  instance,  the  Greeks  would  have 
told  the  story  of  Abelard  and  Heloise,  making 
but  a  sentence  for  our  classical  dictionary,  — 
and  then,  perchance,  have  stuck  up  their  names 
to  shine  in  some  corner  of  the  firmament.  We 
moderns,  on  the  other  hand,  collect  only  the 
raw  materials  of  biography  and  history,  "me 
moirs  to  serve  for  a  history,"  which  itself  is  but 
materials  to  serve  for  a  mythology.  How  many 
volumes  folio  would  the  Life  and  Labors  of  Pro 
metheus  have  filled,  if  perchance  it  had  fallen, 
as  perchance  it  did  first,  in  days  of  cheap  print 
ing!  Who  knows  what  shape  the  fable  of  Co 
lumbus  will  at  length  assume,  to  be  confounded 


76  A  WEEK 

with  that  of  Jason  and  the  expedition  of  the 
Argonauts.  And  Franklin,  —  there  may  be  a 
line  for  him  in  the  future  classical  dictionary, 
recording  what  that  demigod  did,  and  refer 
ring  him  to  some  new  genealogy.  "Son  of 

and  .     He  aided  the  Americans  to 

gain  their  independence,  instructed  mankind  in 
economy,  and  drew  down  lightning  from  the 
clouds." 

The  hidden  significance  of  these  fables  which 
is  sometimes  thought  to  have  been  detected,  the 
ethics  running  parallel  to  the  poetry  and  his 
tory,  are  not  so  remarkable  as  the  readiness 
with  which  they  may  be  made  to  express  a  va 
riety  of  truths.  As  if  they  were  the  skeletons 
of  still  older  and  more  universal  truths  than 
any  whose  flesh  and  blood  they  are  for  the  time 
made  to  wear.  It  is  like  striving  to  make  the 
sun,  or  the  wind,  or  the  sea  symbols  to  sig 
nify  exclusively  the  particular  thoughts  of  our 
day.  But  what  signifies  it  ?  In  the  mythus  a 
superhuman  intelligence  uses  the  unconscious 
thoughts  and  dreams  of  men  as  its  hieroglyph 
ics  to  address  men  unborn.  In  the  history  of 
the  human  mind,  these  glowing  and  ruddy  fables 
precede  the  noonday  thoughts  of  men,  as  Aurora 
the  sun's  rays.  The  matutine  intellect  of  the 
poet,  keeping  in  advance  of  the  glare  of  philoso 
phy,  always  dwells  in  this  auroral  atmosphere. 


SUNDAY  77 

As  we  said  before,  the  Concord  is  a  dead 
stream,  but  its  scenery  is  the  more  suggestive 
to  the  contemplative  voyager,  and  this  day  its 
water  was  fuller  of  reflections  than  our  pages 
even.  Just  before  it  reaches  the  falls  in  Biller- 
ica,  it  is  contracted,  and  becomes  swifter  and 
shallower,  with  a  yellow  pebbly  bottom,  hardly 
passable  for  a  canal-boat,  leaving  the  broader 
and  more  stagnant  portion  above  like  a  lake 
among  the  hills.  All  through  the  Concord, 
Bedford,  and  Billerica  meadows  we  had  heard 
no  murmur  from  its  stream,  except  where  some 
tributary  runnel  tumbled  in,  — 

Some  tumultuous  little  rill, 

Purling  round  its  storied  pebble, 

Tinkling  to  the  selfsame  tune, 

From  September  until  June, 

Which  no  drought  doth  e'er  enfeeble. 

Silent  flows  the  parent  stream, 

And  if  rocks  do  lie  below, 
Smothers  with  her  waves  the  din, 
As  it  were  a  youthfuLsjn^. 

Just  as  still,  and  just  as  slow. 

Ibut  now  at  length  we  heard  this  staid  and  prim 
itive  river  rushing  to  her  fall,  like  any  rill. 
We  here  left  its  channel,  just  above  the  Bil 
lerica  Falls,  and  entered  the  canal,  which  runs, 
or  rather  is  conducted,  six  miles  through  the 
woods  to  the  Merrimack,  at  Middlesex ;  and  as 
we  did  not  care  to  loiter  in  this  part  of  our  voy- 


78  A   WEEK 

age,  while  one  ran  along  the  tow-path  drawing 
the  boat  by  a  cord,  the  other  kept  it  off  the 
shore  with  a  pole,  so  that  we  accomplished  the 
whole  distance  in  little  more  than  an  hour. 
This  canal,  which  is  the  oldest  in  the  country, 
and  has  even  an  antique  look  beside  the  more 
modern  railroads,  is  fed  by  the  Concord,  so 
that  we  were  still  floating  on  its  familiar  waters. 
It  is  so  much  water  which  the  river  lets  for  the 
advantage  of  commerce.  There  appeared  some 
want  of  harmony  in  its  scenery,  since  it  was  not 
of  equal  date  with  the  woods  and  meadows 
through  which  it  is  led,  and  we  missed  the  con 
ciliatory  influence  of  time  on  land  and  water; 
but  in  the  lapse  of  ages,  Nature  will  recover 
and  indemnify  herself,  and  gradually  plant  fit 
shrubs  and  flowers  along  its  borders.  Already 
the  kingfisher  sat  upon  a  pine  over  the  water, 
and  the  bream  and  pickerel  swam  below.  Thus 

of-jthe  hands  of_the 


architect  info  the  hajidg_gf^Naturet  to  be  per 
fected. 

It  was  a  retired  and  pleasant  route,  without 
houses  or  travelers,  except  some  young  men 
who  were  lounging  upon  a  bridge  in  Chelms- 
ford,  wjip_leaned  impudently^  over  the  rails  to 
pryjnto  our  concerns^  but  we  caught  the  eye  of 
the  most  forward,  and  looked  at  him  till  he  was 
visibly_discoinfite4.  Not  that  there  was  any 


SUNDAY  79 

peculiar  efficacy  in  our  look,  but  rather  a  sense 
of  shame  left  in  him  which  disarmed  him. 

It  is  a  very  true  and  expressive  phrase,  "He 
looked  daggers  at  me,"  for  the  first  pattern  and 
prototype  of  all  daggers  must  have  been  a 
glance  of  the  eye.  First,  there  was  the  glance 
of  Jove's  eye,  then  his  fiery  bolt;  then,  the 
material  gradually  hardening,  tridents,  spears, 
javelins;  and  finally,  for  the  convenience  of  pri 
vate  men,  daggers,  krisses,  and  so  forth,  were 
invented.  It  is  wonderful  how  we  get  about 
the  streets  without  being  wounded  by  these 
delicate  and  glancing  weapons,  a  man  can  so 
nimbly  whip  out  his  rapier,  or  without  being 
noticed  carry  it  unsheathed.  Yet  it  is  rare 
that  one  gets  seriously  looked  at. 

As  we  passed  under  the  last  bridge  over  the 
canal,  just  before  reaching  the  Merrimack,  the 
people  coming  out  of  church  paused  to  look  at 
us  from  above,  and  apparently,  so  strong  is  cus 
tom,  indulged  in  some  heathenish  comparisons; 
but  we  were  the  truest  observers  of  this  sunny 
day.  According  to  Hesiod, — 

"  The  seventh  is  a  holy  day, 
For  then  Latona  brought  forth  golden-rayed  Apollo," 

and  by  our  reckoning  this  was  the  seventh  day 
of  the  week,  and  not  the  first.  I  find  among 
the  papers  of  an  old  Justice  of  the  Peace  and 
Deacon  of  the  town  of  Concord,  this  singular 


80  A  WEEK 

memorandum,  which  is  worth  preserving  as  a 
relic  of  an  ancient  custom.  After  reforming 
the  spelling  and  grammar,  it  runs  as  follows: 
"Men  that  traveled  with  teams  on  the  Sab 
bath,  December  18,  1803,  were  Jeremiah  Rich 
ardson  and  Jonas  Parker,  both  of  Shirley. 
They  had  teams  with  rigging  such  as  is  used 
to  carry  barrels,  and  they  were  traveling  west 
ward.  Richardson  was  questioned  by  the  Hon. 
Ephraim  Wood,  Esq.,  and  he  said  that  Jonas 
Parker  was  his  fellow-traveler,  and  he  further 
said  that  a  Mr.  Longley  was  his  employer,  who 
promised  to  bear  him  out."  We  were  the  men 
that  were  gliding  northward,  this  September  1, 
1839,  with  still  team,  and  rigging  not  the  most 
convenient  to  carry  barrels,  unquestioned  by 
any  Squire  or  Church  Deacon,  and  ready  to  bear 
ourselves  out  if  need  were.  In  the  latter  part 
of  the  seventeenth  century,  according  to  the 
historian  of  Dunstable,  "Towns  were  directed 
to  erect  4a  cage'  near  the  meeting-house,  and 
in  this  all  offenders  against  the  sanctity  of  the 
Sabbath  were  confined."  Society  has  relaxed 
a  little  from  its  strictness,  one  would  say,  but 
J.  presume  that  there  is  noteless  reliyifw,  than 
l£_jhejiyature  is  found  to  be  loos 


ened  in  one  part,  it  is  only  drawn  the  tighter 
in  another. 

You  can  hardly  convince  a  man  of  an  error 


SUNDAY  81 

in  a  lifetime,  but  must  content  yourself  with 
the  reflection  that  the  progress  of  science  is 
slow.  If  he  is  not 


flrp,n  nmy  ha.  The  geologists  tell  us  that  it 
took  one  hundred  years  to  prove  that  fossils  are 
organic,  and  one  hundred  and  fifty  more  to 
prove  that  they  are  not  to  be  referred  to  the 
Noachian  deluge.  I  am  not  sure  but  I  should 
betake  myself  in  extremities  to  the  liberal  di 
vinities  of  Greece,  rather  than  to  my  country's 
God.  Jehovah,  though  with  us  he  has  ac 
quired  new  attributes,  jg  more  absolute  and 
ujiapprgachable,  but  hardly  more  divine,  than 
He  is  not  so  much  of  a  gentleman,  not 
and  jsaj^olic,  hjL  does  not  exert  so 


intimate^and  genial  an  influence  on  nature,  as 
nmnjia  god  of  the  Greeks.  I  should  fear  the 
infinite  power  and  inflexible  justice  of  the  al 
mighty  mortal  hardly  as  yet  apotheosized,  so 
wholly  masculine,  with  no  sister  Juno,  no 
Apollo,  no  Venus,  nor  Minerva,  to  intercede 

for  me,  Ovfj.<*>  <£iAeovcra  T€,  Kr)8ojjLevrj  re.      The  ,GLcfi- 

cjan  are  youthful  and  erring  and  fallen  gods. 
with  the  vices  of  men,  but  in  many  important 
respects  essentially  of  the  divine  race.  In  my 
Pantheon,  Pan  still  reigns  in  his  pristine  glory, 
with  his  ruddy  face,  his  flowing  beard,  and  his 
shaggy  body,  his  pipe  and  his  crook,  his  nymph 
Echo,  and  his  chosen  daughter  lambe;  for  the 


82  A  WEEK 

great  god  PJULJS  not  dead,  as  was  rumored. 
No  god  ever  dies.  Perhaps  of  all  the  gods  of 
New  England  and  of  ancient  Greece,  I  am 
most  constant  at  his  shrine. 

/""  It  seems  to  me  that  the  god  that  is  commonly 
worshiped  in  civilized  countries  is  not  at  all 
divine,  though  he  bears  a  divine  name,  but  is 
the  oj^whelming'authQrity  and  respectability 
jf  mankind  combined.  Men  reverence  one  an 
other,  not  yet  God.  If  I  thought  that  I  could 
speak  with  discrimination  and  impartiality  of 
the  nations  of  Christendom,  I  should  praise 
them,  but  it  tasks  me  too  much.  They  seem 
to  be  the  most  civil  and  humane,  but  I  may  be 
mistaken.  Every  people  have  gods  to  suit 
their  circumstances;  the  Society  Islanders  had 
a  god  called  Toahitu,  "  in  shape  like  a  dog ;  he 
saved  such  as  were  in  danger  of  falling  from 
rocks  and  trees."  I  think  that  we  can  do  with 
out  him,  as  we  have  not  much  climbing  to  do. 
Among  them  a  man  could  make  himself  a  god 
out  of  a  piece  of  wood  in  a  few  minutes,  which 
would  frighten  him  out  of  his  wits. 

I  fancy  that  some  indefatigable  spinster  of 
the  old  school,  who  had  the  supreme  felicity  to 
be  born  in  "days  that  tried  men's  souls,"  hear 
ing  this,  may  say  with  Nestor,  another  of  the 
old  school,  "But  you  are  younger  than  I.  For 
time  was  when  I  conversed  with  greater  men 


SUNDAY  83 

than  you.  For  not  at  any  time  have  I  seen 
such  men,  nor  shall  see  them,  as  Perithous,  and 
Dry  as,  and  Troi/xeVa  A,au>»>,"  that  is  probably 
Washington,  sole  "Shepherd  of  the  People." 
And  when  Apollo  has  now  six  times  rolled 
westward,  or  seemed  to  roll,  and  now  for  the 
seventh  time  shows  his  face  in  the  east,  eyes 
wellnigh  glazed,  long  glassed,  which  have  fluc 
tuated  only  between  lamb's  wool  and  worsted, 
explore  ceaselessly  some  good  sermon  book.  For 
six  days  shalt  thou  labor  and  do  all  thy  knit 
ting,  but  on  the  seventh,  forsooth,  thy  reading. 
Happy  we  who  can  bask  in  this  warm  Septem 
ber  sun,  which  illumines  all  creatures,  as  well 
when  they  rest  as  when  they  toil,  not  without 
a  feeling  of  gratitude;  whose  life  is  as  blame 
less,  how  blameworthy  soever  it  may  be,  on  the 
Lord's  Mona-day  as  on  his  Suna-day. 

There  are  various,  nay,  incredible  faiths; 
why  should  we  be  alarmed  at  any  of  them? 
What  man  believes,  God  believes.  Long  as  I 
have  lived,  and  many  blasphemers  as  I  have 
heard  and  seen,  I  have  never  yet  heard  or  wit 
nessed  any  direct  and  conscious  blasphemy  or 
irreverence;  but  of  indirect  and  habitual, 
enough.  Where  is  the_manwho  JLa^guiUyL  of 
jlirec^and  personal  insolence  to^Qmjthat_made 
him? 

One  memorable  addition  to  the  old  mythol- 


84  A   WEEK 

ogy  is  due  to  this  era,  —  the  Christian  fable. 
With  what  pains,  and  tears,  and  blood  these 
centuries  have  woven  this  and  added  it  to  the 
mythology  of  mankind !  The  new  Prometheus. 
With  what  miraculous  consent,  and  patience, 
and  persistency  has  this  mythus  been  stamped 
on  the  memory  of  the  race!  It  would  seem  as 
if  it  were  in  the  progress  of  our  mythology  to 
dethrone  Jehovah,  and  crown  Christ  in  his 
stead. 

If  it  is  not  a  tragical  life  we  live,  then  I  know 
not  what  to  call  it.  Such  a  story  as  that  of 
Jesus  Christ,  — the  history  of  Jerusalem,  say, 
being  a  part  of  the  Universal  History.  The 
naked,  the  embalmed,  unburied  death  of  Jeru 
salem  amid  its  desolate  hills,  —  think  of  it.  In 
Tasso's  poem  I  trust  some  things  are  sweetly 
buried.  Consider  the  snappish  tenacity  with 
which  they  preach  Christianity  still.  What  are 
time  and  space  to  Christianity,  eighteen  hun 
dred  years,  and  a  new  world?  —  that  the  hum 
ble  life  of  a  Jewish  peasant  should  have  force 
to  make  a  New  York  bishop  so  bigoted.  Forty- 
four  lamps,  the  gift  of  kings,  now  burning  in  a 
place  called  the  Holy  Sepulchre ;  a  church-bell 
ringing;  some  unaffected  tears  shed  by  a  pil 
grim  on  Mount  Calvary  within  the  week. 

"Jerusalem,  Jerusalem,  when  I  forget  thee, 
may  my  right  hand  forget  her  cunning." 


SUNDAY  85 

"By  the  waters  of  Babylon  there  we  sat 
down,  and  we  wept  when  we  remembered  Zion." 

I  trust  that  some  may  be  as  near  and  dear 
to  Buddha,  or  Christ,  or  Swedenborg,  who  are 
without  the  pale  of  their  churches,  jit  isjne- 
to  be  Christian  to  appreciate  the 


beautj^and  significance  of  the  life  of  Christ.  I 
know  that  some  will  have  hard  thoughts  of  me, 
when  they  hear  their  Christ  named  beside  my 
Buddha,  yet  I  am  sure  that  I  am  willing  they 
should  love  their  Christ  more  than  my  Buddha, 
for  the  love  is  the  main  thing,  and  I  like  him 
too.  "God  is  the  letter  Ku,  as  well  as  Khu." 
Why  need  Christians  be  still  intolerant  and 
superstitious?  The  simple-minded  sailors  were 
unwilling  to  cast  overboard  Jonah  at  his  own 
request. 

"  Where  is  this  love  become  in  later  age  ? 
Alas  !  't  is  gone  in  endless  pilgrimage 
From  hence,  and  never  to  return,  I  doubt, 
Till  revolution  wheel  those  times  about." 

One  man  says,  — 

"  The  world  's  a  popular  disease,  that  reigns 
Within  the  froward  heart  and  frantic  brains 
Of  poor  distempered  mortals." 

Another,  that 

"  all  the  world  's  a  stage, 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players." 

The  world  is  a  strange  place  for  a  playhouse  to 
stand  within  it.  Old  Drayton  thought  that  a 


86  A  WEEK 

man  that  lived  here,  and  would  be  a  poet,  fop 
instance,  should  have  in  him  certain  "brave, 
translunary  things,"  and  a  "fine  madness" 
should  possess  his  brain.  Certainly  it  were  as 
well,  that  he  might  be  up  to  the  occasion. 
That  is  a  superfluous  wonder,  which  Dr.  John 
son  expresses  at  the  assertion  of  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  that  "his  life  has  been  a  miracle  of 
thirty  years,  which  to  relate  were  not  history 
but  a  piece  of  poetry,  and  would  sound  like  a 
fable."  The  wonder  is,  rather,  that  all  men 
do  not  assert  as  much.  That  would  be  a  rare 
praise,  if  it  were  true,  which  was  addressed  to 
Francis  Beaumont,  —  "  Spectators  sate  part  in 
your  tragedies." 

Think  what  a  mean  and  wretched  place  this 
world  is ;  that  half  the  time  we  have  to  light  a 
lamp  that  we  may  see  to  live  in  it.  This  is  half 
our  life.  Who  would  undertake  the  enterprise 
if  it  were  all?  And,  pray,  what  more  has  day 
to  offer?  A  lamp  that  burns  more  clear,  a 
purer  oil,  say  winter-strained,  that  so  we  may 
pursue  our  idleness  with  less  obstruction. 
Bribed  with  a  little  sunlight  and  a  few  pris 
matic  tints,  we  bless  our  Maker,  and  stave  off 
his  wrath  with  h}Tnns. 

I  make  ye  an  offer, 

Ye  gods,  hear  the  scoffer, 

The  scheme  will  not  hurt  you, 

If  ye  will  find  goodness,  I  will  find  virtue, 


SUNDAY  87 

Though  I  am  your  creature, 
And  child  of  your  nature, 
I  have  pride  still  unbended, 
And  blood  undescended, 
Some  free  independence, 
And  my  own  descendants. 
I  cannot  toil  blindly, 
Though  ye  behave  kindly, 
And  I  swear  by  the  rood, 
I'll  be  slave  to  no  God. 
I£  ye  will  deal  plainlyf 
I  will  strive  mainly, 
ill  discover. 


Great  plans  to_your  loverr 
And  give  him  a  sphere 
Somewhat  larger  than  here. 

"Verily,  my  angels!  I  was  abashed  on  ac 
count  of  ray  servant,  who  had  no  Providence 
but  me;  therefore  did  I  pardon  him."1 

Most  people  with  whom  I  talk,  men  and  wo 
men  even  of  some  originality  and  genius,  have 
their  scheme  of  the  universe  all  cut  and  dried, 
—  very  dry,  I  assure  you,  to  hear,  dry  enough 
to  burn,  dry-rotted  and  powder-post,  methinks, 
•  —  which  they  set  up  between  you  and  them  in 
the  shortest  intercourse  ;  an  ancient  and  totter 
ing  frame  with  all  its  boards  blown  off.  They 
do  not  walk  without  their  bed.  Some,  to  me, 
seemingly  very  unimportant  and  unsubstantial 
things  and  relations,  are  for  them  everlastingly 

1  The  Gulistan  of  Sadi. 


88  A   WEEK 

settled,  —  as  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,  and 
the  like.  These  are  like  the  everlasting  hills  to 
them.  But  in  all  my  wanderings  I  never  came 
across  the  least  vestige  of  authority  for  these 
things.  They  have  not  left  so  distinct  a  trace 
as  the  delicate  flower  of  a  remote  geological 
period  on  the  coal  in  my  grate.  Tile  wisest 
no  .doctrines  :  hejhasjiojjcheme  ; 


he  sees  no  rafter,  not  even_a_cobweb,  against 
the_heavens.  it  is  clear  sky.  I£.  I  ever  see 
more  clearly  at  one  time  than  at  another,  the 
medium  through  which  I  see  is  clearer.  To  see 
from  earth  to  heaven,  and  see  there  standing, 
stilFaT  fixture,  that  old  Jewish  scheme  !  What 
jjght  have  you  to  hold  up  this  obstacle  to  my  Y  ,  J 

.^understanding  you,  to  your  understanding  me  ! 
You  did  not  invent  it  ;  it  was  imposed  on  you. 

JExamine  your  authority.  Even  Christ,  we 
fear,  had  his  scheme,  his  conformity  to  tradi- 

^pE^jwhich  slightly  vitiates  his  teaching.  He 
had  not  swallowed  all  formulas"  He  ^preached 
some  mere  doctrines.  As  for  me,  Abraham, 
Isaac,  and  Jacob  are  now  only  the  subtilest  im 
aginable  essences,  which  would  not  stain  the 
morning  sky.  Your  scheme  must  be  the  frame 
work  of  the  universe;  all  other  schemes  will 
soon  be  ruins.  The  perfect  God  in  his  revela 
tions  of  himself  has  never  got  to  the  length  of 
one  such  proposition  as  you,  his  prophets,  state. 


SUNDAY  89 

Have  you  learned  the  alphabet  of  heaven  and 
can  count  three?  Do  you  know  the  number  of 
God's  family?  Can  you  put  mysteries  into 
words?  Do  you  presume  to  fable  of  the  in 
effable?  Pray,  what  geographer  are  you,  that 
speak  of  heaven's  topography?  Whose  friend 
are  you  that  speak  of  God's  personality?  Do 
you,  Miles  Howard,  think  that  he  has  made  you 
his  confidant?  Tell  me  of  the  height  of  the 
mountains  of  the  moon,  or  of  the  diameter  of 
space,  and  I  may  believe  you,  but  of  the  secret 
history  of  the  Almighty,  and  I  shall  pronounce 
thee  mad.  Yet  we  have  a  sort  of  family  history 
of  our  God,  —  so  have  the  Tahitians  of  theirs, 
—  and  some  old  poet's  grand  imagination  is  im 
posed  on  us  as  adamantine  everlasting  truth, 
and  God's  own  word.  Pythagoras  says,  truly 
enough,  "A  true  assertion  respecting  God  is 
an  assertion  of  God;"  but  we  may  well  doubt 
if  there  is  any  example  of  this  in  literature. 

The  New  Testament  is  an  invaluable  book, 
though  I  confess  to  having  been  slightly  pre 
judiced  against  it  in  my  very  early  days  by 
the  church  and  the  Sabbath  school,  so  that  it 
seemed,  before  I  reaji  it,  to  be  the  yellowest 
book  in  the  catalogue.  Yet  I  early  escaped 
from  their  meshes.  It  was  hard  to  get  the  com 
mentaries  out  of  one's  head  and  taste  its  true 
flavor.  I  think  that  Pilgrim's  Progress  is  the 


90  A   WEEK 

best  sermon  which  has  been  preached  from  this 
text;  almost  all  other  sermons  that  I  have 
heard,  or  heard  of,  have  been  but  poor  imita 
tions  of  this.  It  would  be  a  poor  story  to  be 
prejudiced  against  the  Life  of  Christ  because 
the  book  has  been  edited  by  Christians.  In 
fact,  I  love  this  book  rarely,  though  it  is  a  sort 
of  castle  in  the  air  to  me,  which  I  am  permitted 
to  dream.  Having  come  to  it  so  recently  and 
freshly,  it  has  the  greater  charm,  so  that  I  can 
not  find  any  to  talk  with  about  it.  I  never  read 
a  novel,  they  have  so  little  real  life  and  thought 
in  them.  The  reading  which  I  love  best  is  the 
scriptures  of  the  several  nations,  though  it  hap 
pens  that  I  am  better  acquainted  with  those  of 
the  Hindoos,  the  Chinese,  and  the  Persians, 
than  of  the  Hebrews,  which  I  have  come  to  last. 
Give  me  one  of  these  Bibles,  and  you  have  si 
lenced  me  for  a  while.  When  I  recover  the  use 
of  my  tongue,  I  am  wont  to  worry  my  neigh 
bors  with  the  new  sentences;  but  commonly 
they  cannot  see  that  there  is  any  wit  in  them. 
Such  has  been  my  experience  with  the  New 
Testament.  I  have  not  yet  got  to  the  cruci 
fixion,  I  have  read  it  over  so  many  times.  I 
should  love  dearly  to  read  it  aloud  to  my  friends, 
some  of  whom  are  seriously  inclined;  it  is  so 
good,  and  I  am  sure  that  they  have  never  heard 
it,  it  fits  their  case  exactly,  and  we  should  enjoy 


SUNDA  Y  91 

it  so  much  together,  —  but  I  instinctively  de 
spair  of  getting  their  ears.  They  soon  show, 
by  signs  not  to  be  mistaken,  that  it  is  inexpres 
sibly  wearisome  to  them.  I  do  not  mean  to 
imply  that  I  am  any  better  than  my  neigh 
bors;  for,  alas!  I  know  that  I  am  only  as 
good,  though  I  love  better  books  than  they. 

It  is  remarkable  that,  notwithstanding  the 
universal  favor  with  which  the  New  Testament 
is  outwardly  received,  and  even  the  bigotry  with 
which  it  is  defended,  there  is  no  hospitality 
shown  to,  there  is  no  appreciation  of,  the  order 
of  truth  with  which  it  deals.  I  know  of  no 
book  that  has  so  few  readers.  There  is  none  so 
truly  strange,  and  heretical,  and  unpopular. 
To  Christians,  no  less  than  Greeks  and  Jews, 
it  is  foolishness  and  a  stumbling-block.  There 
are,  indeed,  severe  things  in  it  which  no  man 
should  read  aloud  more  than  once.  "  Seek  first 
the  kingdom  of  heaven."  "Lay  not  up  for 
yourselves  treasures  on  earth."  "If  thou  wilt 
be  perfect,  go  and  sell  that  thou  hast,  and  give 
to  the  poor,  and  thou  shalt  have  treasure  in 
heaven."  "For  what  is  a  man  profited,  if  he 
shall  gain  the  whole  world,  and  lose  his  own 
soul?  Or  what  shall  a  man  give  in  exchange 
for  his  soul?"  Think  of  this,  Yankees! 
"Verily,  I  say  unto  you,  if  ye  have  faith  as  a 
grain  of  mustard  seed,  ye  shall  say  unto  this 


92  A   WEEK 

mountain,  Remove  hence  to  yonder  place,  and 
it  shall  remove ;  and  nothing  shall  be  impossible 
unto  you."  Think  of  repeating  these  things  to 
a  New  England  audience !  thirdly,  fourthly,  fif  - 
teenthly,  till  there  are  three  barrels  of  sermons ! 
Who,  without  cant,  can  read  them  aloud? 
Who,  without  cant,  can  hear  them,  and  not  go 
out  of  the  meeting-house?  They  never  were 
read,  they  never  were  heard.  Let  but  one  of 
these  sentences  be  rightly  read,  from  any  pulpit 
in  the  land,  and  there  would  not  be  left  one 
stone  of  that  meeting-house  upon  another. 

Yet  the  New  Testament  treats  of  man  and 
man's  so-called  spiritual  affairs  too  exclusively, 
and  is  too  constantly  moral  and  personal,  to 
alone  content  me,  who  am  not  interested  solely 
in  man's  religious  or  moral  nature,  or  in  man 
even.  I  have  not  the  most  definite  designs  on 
the  future.  Absolutely  speaking,  Do  unto  oth 
ers  as  you  would  that  they  should  do  unto  you 
is  by  no  means  a  golden  rule,  but  the  best  of 
current  silver.  An  honest  man  would  have  but 
little  occasion  for  it.  It  is  golden  not  to  have 
any  rule  at  all  in  such  a  case.  The  book  has 
never  been  written  which  is  to  be  accepted  with 
out  any  allowance.  Christ  was  a  sublime  actor 
on  the  stage  of  the  world.  He  knew  what  he 
was  thinking  of  when  he  said,  ''Heaven  and 
j?arth  shall  pass  away,  but  my  words  shall  not 


SUNDAY  93 

Cjmss  away*"  I  draw  near  to  him  at  such  a 
time.  Yet  h(Ttaught  mankind  but  imperfectly 
how  to  live ;  his  thoughts  were  all  directed  to- 
ward  another  world.  There  is  another  kind  of 
success  than  his.  Even  here  we  have  a  sort  of 
living  to  get,  and  must  buffet  it  somewhat 
longer.  There  are  various  tough  problems  yet 
to  solve,  and  we  must  make  shift  to  live,  be 
twixt  spirit  and  matter,  such  a  human  life  as 
we  can. 

A  healthy  man,  with  steady  employment,  as 
wood-chopping  at  fifty  cents  a  cord,  and  a  camp 
in  the  woods,  will  not  be  a  good  subject  for 
Christianity.  The  New  Testament  may  be  a 
choice  book  to  him  on  some,  but  not  on  all  or 
most  of  his  days.  He  will  rather  go  a-fishing 
in  his  leisure  hours.  The  Apostles,  though 
they  were  fishers  too,  were  of  the  solemn  race 
of  sea-fishers,  and  never  trolled  for  pickerel  on 
inland  streams. 

Men  have  a  singular  desire  to  be  good  with 
out  being  good  for  anything,  because,  perchance, 
they  think  vaguely  that  so  it  will  be  good  for 
them  in  the  end.  The  sort  of  morality  which 
thf  pripsts  inculcate  is  a  very  subtle  policy,  far 
finer  than  the  politicians',  and  thejworld  is  very 

,  SUPPPSftfnlly  ml  fid  by^  thp.m-a^  the_  policemen . 
It  is  not  worth  the  while  to  let  our  imperfec 
tions  disturb  us  always.  The  conscience  really 


94  A  WEEK 

does  not,  and  ought  not  to  monopolize  the  whole 
of  our  lives,  any  more  than  the  fceart  or  the 
jiead.  It  is  as  liable  to  disease  as  any  other 
part.  I  have  seen  some  whose  consciences, 
owing  undoubtedly  to  former  indulgence,  had 
grown  to  be  as  irritable  as  spoilt  children,  and 
at  length  gave  them  no  peace.  They  did  not 
know  when  to  swallow  their  cud,  and  their  lives 
of  course  yielded  no  milk. 

inp*™<tt  bred  in  the  house, 


Feeling  and  Thinking  propagate  the  sin 

By  an  unnatural  breeding  in  and  in. 

I  say,  Tnrnjtout  doors, 

Into  the  moors. 

I  love  a  life  -whose  plot  is  simple, 

And  does  not  thicken  with  every  pimple, 

A  soul  so  sound  no  sickly  conscience  binds  it, 

That  makes  the  universe  no  worse  than  't  finds  it. 

I  love  an  earnest  soul, 

Whose  mighty  joy  and  sorrow 

Are  not  drowned  in  a  bowl, 

And  brought  to  life  to-morrow  ; 

That  lives  one  tragedy, 

And  not  seventy  ; 

A  conscience  worth  keeping, 

Laughing  not  weeping  ; 

A  conscience  wise  and  steady, 

And  forever  ready  ; 

Not  changing  with  events, 

Dealing  in  compliments  ; 

A  conscience  exercised  about 

Large  things,  where  one  may  doubt. 

I  love  a  soul  not  all  of  wood, 

Predestinated  to  be  good, 


SUNDAY  95 

But  true  to  the  backbone 
Unto  itself  alone, 
And  false  to  none ; 
Born  to  its  own  affairs, 
Its  own  joys  and  own  cares  ; 
By  whom  the  work  which  God  begun 
Is  finished,  and  not  undone ; 
.-Taken  up  whej-e  he  jeft  off, 
Whether  to  worship  or  to  scoff ; 
If  not  good,  why  then  evil, 
If  not  good  god,  good  devil. 
Goodness  !  —  you  hypocrite,  come  out  of  that, 
Live  your  life,  do  your  work,  then  take  your  hat. 
I  have  no  patience  towards 
Such  conscientious  cowards. 
Give  me  simple  laboring  folk, 
Who  love  their  work, 
Whose  virtue  is  a  song 
To  cheer  God  along. 

I  was  once  reproved  by  a  minister  who  was 
driving  a  poor  beast  to  some  meeting-house 
horse-sheds  among  the  hills  of  New  Hampshire, 
because  I  was  bending  my  steps  to  a  mountain- 
top  on  the  Sabbath,  instead  of  a  church,  when  I 
would  have  gone  farther  than  he  to  hear  a  true 
word  spoken  on  that  or  any  day.  He  declared 
that  I  was  "breaking  the  Lord's  fourth  com 
mandment,"  and  proceeded  to  enumerate,  in  a 
sepulchral  tone,  the  disasters  which  had  befallen 
him  whenever  he  had  done  any  ordinary  work 
on  the  Sabbath.  He  really  thought  that  a  god 
was  on  the  watch  to  trip  up  those  men  who  fol 
lowed  any  secular  work  on  this  day,  and  did  not 


96  A   WEEK 

see  that  it  was  the  evil  conscience  of  the  workers 
that  did  it.  The  country  is  full  of  this  super 
stition,  so  that  when  one  enters  a  village,  the 
church,  not  only  really  but  from  association, 
is  the  ugliest  looking  building  in  it,  because  it 
is  the  one  in  which  human  nature  stoops  the 
lowest  and  is  most  disgraced.  Certainly,  such 
temples  as  these  shall  erelong  cease  to  deform 
the  landscape.  There  are  few  things  more  dis 
heartening  and  disgusting  than  when  you  are 
walking  the  streets  of  a  strange  village  on  the 
Sabbath,  to  hear  a  preacher  shouting  like  a 
boatswain  in  a  gale  of  wind,  and  thus  harshly 
profaning  the  quiet  atmosphere  of  the  day.  You 
fancy  him  to  have  taken  off  his  coat,  as  when 
men  are  about  to  do  hot  and  dirty  work. 

If  I  should  ask  the  minister  of  Middlesex  to 
let  me  speak  in  his  pulpit  on  a  Sunday,  he 
would  object  because  I  do  not  pray  as  he  does, 
or  because  I  am  not  ordained.  What  under 
the  sun  are  these  things? 

Really,  there  is  no  infidelity,  nowadays,  so 
great  as  that  which  prays,  and  keeps  the  Sab 
bath,  and  rebuilds  the  churches.  The  sealer  of 
the  South  Pacific  preaches  a  truer  doctrine. 
The  church  is  a  sort  of  hospital  for  men's  souls, 
and  as  full  of  quackery  as  the  hospital  for  their 
bodies.  Those  who  are  taken  into  it  live  like 
pensioners  in  their  Retreat  or  Sailor's  Snug 


SUNDAY  97 

Harbor,  where  you  may  see  a  row  of  religious 
cripples  sitting  outside  in  sunny  weather.  Let 
not  the  .  apprehension  that  he  may  one  day  have 
to  occupy  a  ward  therein  discourage  the  cheer 
ful  labors  of  the  able-souled  man.  While  he 
remembers  the  sick  in  their  extremities,  let  him 
not  look  thither  as  to  his  goal.  One  is  sick 
at  heart  of  this  pagoda  worship.  It  is  like  the 
beating  of  gongs  in  a  Hindoo  subterranean  tem 
ple.  In  dark  places  and  dungeons  the  preach 
er's  words  might  perhaps  strike  root  and  grow, 
but  not  in  broad  daylight  in  any  part  of  the 
world  that  I  know.  The  sound  of  the  Sabbath 
bell  far  away,  now  breaking  on  these  shores, 
does  not  awaken  pleasing  associations,  but  mel 
ancholy  and  sombre  ones  rather.  One  involun 
tarily  rests  on  his  oar,  to  humor  his  unusually 
meditative  mood.  It  is  as  the  sound  of  many 
catechisms  and  religious  books  twanging  a  cant 
ing  peal  round  the  earth,  seeming  to  issue  from 
some  Egyptian  temple  and  echo  along  the  shore 
of  the  Nile,  right  opposite  to  Pharaoh's  palace 
and  Moses  in  the  bulrushes,  startling  a  multi 
tude  of  storks  and  alligators  basking  in  the  sun. 
Everywhere  "good  men"  sound  a  retreat, 
and  the  word  has  gone  forth  to  fall  back  on 
innocence.  Fall  forward  rather  on  to  what 
ever  there  is  there.  Christianity  only  hopes. 
It  has  hung  its  harp  on  the  willows,  and  cannot 


98  A   WEEK 

sing  a  song  in  a  strange  land.  It  has  dreamed 
a  sad  dream,  and  does  not  yet  welcome  the 
morning  with  joy.  The  mother  tells  her  false 
hoods  to  her  child,  but,  thank  Heaven,  the  child 
does  not  grow  up  in  its  parent's  shadow.  Our 
mother's  faith  has  not  grown  with  her  experi 
ence.  Her  experience  has  been  too  much  for 
her.  The  lesson  (rf  life  was  too  hard  for  her-  to 


It  is  remarkable  that  almost  all  speakers  and 
writers  feel  it  to  be  incumbent  on  them,  sooner 
or  later,  to  prove  or  to  acknowledge  the  per 
sonality  of  God.  Some  Earl  of  Bridgewater, 
thinking  it  better  late  than  never,  has  provided 
for  it  in  his  will.  It  is  a  sad  mistake.  In 
reading  a  work  on  agriculture,  we  have  to  skip 
the  author's  moral  reflections,  and  the  words 
"Providence"  and  "He"  scattered  along  the 
page,  to  come  at  the  profitable  level  of  what  he 
has  to  say.  What  he  calls  his  religion  is  for 
the  most  part  offensive  to  the  nostrils.  He 
should  know  better  than  expose  himself,  and 
keep  his  foul  sores  covered  till  they  are  quite 
healed.  There  is  morej-eligion  in  men's  science 
than  there  is  science  in  their  religion.  Let  us 
make  haste  to  the  report  of  the  committee  on 
swine. 

A  man's  real  faith  is  never  contained  in  his 
creed,  nor  is  his  creed  an  article  of  his  faith. 


SUNDAY  99 

The  last  is  never  adopted.  This  it  is  that  per 
mits  him  to  smile  ever,  and  to  live  even  as 
bravely  as  he  does.  And  yet  he  clings  anxiously 
to  his  creed,  as  to  a  straw,  thinking  that  that 
does  him  good  service  because  his  sheet  anchor 
does  not  drag. 

In  most  men's  religion,  the  ligature  which 
-^shouldbe  its  umbilical  cord  connecting  them 
with  divinity  is~  rather  like  that  thread  which 
the  accomplices  of  Cylon  held  in  their  hands 
when  they  went  abroad  from  the  temple  of 
Minerva,  the  other  end  being  attached  to  the 
statue  of  the  goddess.  But  frequently,  as  in 
their  case,  the  thread  breaks,  being  stretched, 
and  they  are  left  without  an  asylum. 

"A  good  and  pious  man  reclined  his  head  on 
the  bosom  of  contemplation,  and  was  absorbed 
in  the  ocean  of  a  revery.  At  the  instant  when 
he  awaked  from  his  vision,  one  of  his  friends, 
by  way  of  pleasantry,  said,  What  rare  gift  have 
you  brought  us  from  that  garden,  where  you 
have  been  recreating  ?  He  replied,  I  fancied  to 
myself  and  said,  when  I  can  reach  the  rose- 
bower,  I  will  fill  my  lap  with  the  flowers,  and 
bring  them  as  a  present  to  my  friends;  but 
when  I  got  there,  the  fragrance  of  the  roses  so 
intoxicated  me,  that  the  skirt  dropped  from  my 

hands. '  O  bird  of  dawn !  learn  the  warmth 

of  affection  from  the  moth;  for  that  scorched 


100  A   WEEK 

creature  gave  up  the  ghost,  and  uttered  not  a 
groan:  These  vain  pretenders  are  ignorant  of 
him  they  seek  after ;  for  of  him  that  knew  him 
we  never  heard  again :  —  O  thou !  who  towerest 
above  the  flights  of  conjecture,  opinion,  and 
comprehension ;  whatever  has  been  reported  of 
thee  we  have  heard  and  read;  the  congregation 
is  dismissed,  and  life  drawn  to  a  close ;  and  we 
still  rest  at  our  first  encomium  of  thee! '  " l 

By  noon  we  were  let  down  into  the  Merri- 
mack  through  the  locks  at  Middlesex,  just  above 
Pawtucket  Falls,  by  a  serene  and  liberal-minded 
man,  who  came  quietly  from  his  book,  though 
his  duties,  we  supposed,  did  not  require  him  to 
open  the  locks  on  Sundays.  With  him  we  had 
a  just  and  equal  encounter  of  the  eyes,  as  be 
tween  two  honest  men. 

The  movements  of  the  eyes  express  the  per 
petual  and  unconscious  courtesy  of  the  parties. 
It  is  said  that  a  rogue  does  not  look  you  in  the 
face,  neither  does  an  honest  man  look  at  you  as 
if  he  had  his  reputation  to  establish.  I  have 
seen  some  who  did  not  know  when  to  turn  aside 
their  eyes  in  meeting  yours.  A  truly  confident 
and  magnanimous  spirit  is  wiser  than  to  contend 
for  the  mastery  in  such  encounters.  Serpents 
alone  conquer  by  the  steadiness  of  their  gaze. 

1  Sadi. 


SUNDAY  101 

My  friend  looks  me  in  the  face  and  sees  me, 
that  is  all. 

The  best  relations  were  at  once  established 
between  us  and  this  man,  and  though  few  words 
were  spoken,  he  could  not  conceal  a  visible  in 
terest  in  us  and  our  excursion.  He  was  a  lover 
of  the  higher  mathematics,  as  we  found,  and  in 
the  midst  of  some  vast  sunny  problem,  when  we 
overtook  him  and  whispered  our  conjectures. 
By  this  man  we  were  presented  with  the  freedom 
of  the  Merrimack.  We  now  felt  as  if  we  were 
fairly  launched  on  the  ocean  stream  of  our  voy 
age,  and  were  pleased  to  find  that  our  boat 
would  float  on  Merrimack  water.  We  began 
again  busily  to  put  in  practice  those  old  arts  of 
rowing,  steering,  and  paddling.  It  seemed  a 
strange  phenomenon  to  us  that  the  two  rivers 
should  mingle  their  waters  so  readily,  since  we 
had  never  associated  them  in  our  thoughts. 

As  we  glided  over  the  broad  bosom  of  the 
Merrimack,  between  Chelmsford  and  Dracut, 
at  noon,  here  a  quarter  of  a  mile  wide,  the  rat 
tling  of  our  oars  was  echoed  over  the  water  to 
those  villages,  and  their  slight  sounds  to  us. 
Their  harbors  lay  as  smooth  and  fairy-like  as 
the  Lida,  or  Syracuse,  or  Rhodes,  in  our  imag 
ination,  while,  like  some  strange  roving  craft, 
we  flitted  past  what  seemed  the  dwellings  of  no 
ble  home-staying  men,  seemingly  as  conspicuous 


102  A  WEEK 

as  if  on  an  eminence,  or  floating  upon  a  tide 
which  came  up  to  those  villagers'  breasts.  At 
a  third  of  a  mile  over  the  water  we  heard  dis 
tinctly  some  children  repeating  their  catechism 
in  a  cottage  near  the  shore,  while  in  the  broad 
shallows  between,  a  herd  of  cows  stood  lashing 
their  sides,  and  waging  war  with  the  flies. 

Two  hundred  years  ago,  other  catechizing 
than  this  was  going  on  here ;  for  here  came  the 
Sachem  Wannalancet  and  his  people,  and  some 
times  Tahatawan,  our  Concord  Sachem,  who 
afterwards  had  a  church  at  home,  to  catch  fish 
at  the  falls;  and  here  also  came  John  Eliot, 
with  the  Bible  and  Catechism,  and  Baxter's 
Call  to  the  Unconverted,  and  other  tracts,  done 
into  the  Massachusetts  tongue,  and  taught  them 
Christianity  meanwhile.  "This  place,"  says 
Gookin,  referring  to  Wamesit,  "being  an  an 
cient  and  capital  seat  of  Indians,  they  come  to 
fish ;  and  this  good  man  takes  this  opportunity 
to  spread  the  net  of  the  gospel,  to  fish  for  their 
souls."  "May  5,  1674,"  he  continues,  "ac 
cording  to  our  usual  custom,  Mr.  Eliot  and 
myself  took  our  journey  to  Wamesit,  or  Paw- 
tuckett;  and  arriving  there  that  evening,  Mr. 
Eliot  preached  to  as  many  of  them  as  could  be 
got  together,  out  of  Matt.  xxii.  1-14,  the  par 
able  of  the  marriage  of  the  king's  son.  We 
met  at  the  wigwam  of  one  called  Wannalancet, 


SUNDA  Y  103 

about  two  miles  from  the  town,  near  Pawtuckett 
falls,  and  bordering  upon  Merrimak  river. 
This  person,  Wannalancet,  is  the  eldest  son  of 
old  Pasaconaway,  the  ehiefest  sachem  of  Paw 
tuckett.  He  is  a  sober  and  grave  person,  and 
of  years,  between  fifty  and  sixty.  He  hath 
been  always  loving  and  friendly  to  the  English." 
As  yet,  however,  they  had  not  prevailed  on  him 
to  embrace  the  Christian  religion.  "But  at 
this  time,"  says  Gookin,  "May  6,  1674,"  — 
"after  some  deliberation  and  serious  pause,  he 
stood  up,  and  made  a  speech  to  this  effect:  *I 
must  acknowledge  I  have,  all  my  days,  used  to 
pass  in  an  old  canoe,  [alluding  to  his  frequent 
custom  to  pass  in  a  canoe  upon  the  river,]  and 
now  you  exhort  me  to  change  and  leave  my  old 
canoe,  and  embark  in  a  new  canoe,  to  which  I 
have  hitherto  been  unwilling;  but  now  I  yield 
up  myself  to  your  advice,  and  enter  into  a  new 
canoe,  and  do  engage  to  pray  to  God  here 
after.'"  One  "Mr.  Richard  Daniel,  a  gentle 
man  that  lived  in  Billerica,"  who  with  other 
"persons  of  quality"  was  present,  "desired 
brother  Eliot  to  tell  the  sachem  from  him,  that 
it  may  be,  while  he  went  in  his  old  canoe,  he 
passed  in  a  quiet  stream ;  but  the  end  thereof 
was  death  and  destruction  to  soul  and  body. 
But  now  he  went  into  a  new  canoe,  perhaps 
he  would  meet  with  storms  and  trials,  but  yet 


104  A   WEEK 

he  should  be  encouraged  to  persevere,  for  the 
end  of  his  voyage  would  be  everlasting  rest." 
"Since  that  time,  I  hear  this  sachem  doth  per 
severe,  and  is  a  constant  and  diligent  hearer  of 
God's  word,  and  sanctifieth  the  Sabbath,  though 
he  doth  travel  to  Wamesit  meeting  every  Sab 
bath,  which  is  above  two  miles;  and  though 
sundry  of  his  people  have  deserted  him,  since 
he  subjected  to  the  gospel,  yet  he  continues  and 
persists."1 

Already,  as  appears  from  the  records,  "At 
a  General  Court  held  at  Boston  in  New  Eng 
land,  the  7th  of  the  first  month,  1643-44," 
"Wassamequin,  Nashoonon,  Kutchamaquin, 
Massaconomet,  and  Squaw  Sachem,  did  volun 
tarily  submit  themselves  "  to  the  English;  and 
among  other  things  did  "promise  to  be  willing 
from  time  to  time  to  be  instructed  in  the  know 
ledge  of  God."  Being  asked  "Not  to  do  any 
unnecessary  work  on  the  Sabbath  day,  espe 
cially  within  the  gates  of  Christian  towns,"  they 
answered,  "It  is  easy  to  them;  they  have  not 
much  to  do  on  any  day,  and  they  can  well  take 
their  rest  on  that  day."  "So,"  says  Winthrop, 
in  his  Journal,  "we  causing  them  to  understand 
the  articles,  and  all  the  ten  commandments  of 
God,  and  they  freely  assenting  to  all,  they  were 
solemnly  received,  and  then  presented  the  Court 
1  Gookin's  Hist.  Coll.  of  the  Indians  in  New  England,  1674 


SUNDAY  105 

with  twenty-six  fathom  more  of  wampom ;  and 
the  Court  gave  each  of  them  a  coat  of  two  yards 
of  cloth,  and  their  dinner;  and  to  them  and 
their  men,  every  of  them,  a  cup  of  sack  at  their 
departure;  so  they  took  leave  and  went  away." 

What  journey  ings  on  foot  and  on  horseback 
through  the  wilderness,  to  preach  the  gospel  to 
these  minks  and  muskrats !  who  first,  no  doubt, 
listened  with  their  red  ears  out  of  a  natural 
hospitality  and  courtesy,  and  afterward  from 
curiosity  or  even  interest,  till  at  length  there 
"were  praying  Indians,"  and,  as  the  General 
Court  wrote  to  Cromwell,  the  "work  is  brought 
to  this  perfection  that  some  of  the  Indians  them 
selves  can  pray  and  prophesy  in  a  comfortable 
manner." 

It  was  in  fact  an  old  battle  and  hunting 
ground  through  which  we  had  been  floating,  the 
ancient  dwelling-place  of  a  race  of  hunters  and 
warriors.  Their  weirs  of  stone,  their  arrow 
heads  and  hatchets,  their  pestles,  and  the  mor 
tars  in  which  they  pounded  Indian  corn  before 
the  white  man  had  tasted  it,  lay  concealed  in  the 
mud  of  the  river  bottom.  Tradition  still  points 
out  the  spots  where  they  took  fish  in  the  greatest 
numbers,  by  such  arts  as  they  possessed.  It  is 
a  rapid  story  the  historian  will  have  to  put  to 
gether.  Miantonimo,  —  Winthrop,  —  Webster. 
Soon  he  comes  from  Montaup  to  Bunker  Hill, 


106  A   WEEK 

from  bear-skins,  parched  corn,  bows  and  arrows, 
to  tiled  roofs,  wheatfields,  guns  and  swords. 
Pawtucket  and  Wamesit,  where  the  Indians  re 
sorted  in  the  fishing  season,  are  now  Lowell,  the 
city  of  spindles  and  Manchester  of  America, 
which  sends  its  cotton  cloth  round  the  globe. 
Even  we  youthful  voyagers  had  spent  a  part  of 
our  lives  in  the  village  of  Chelmsford,  when  the 
present  city,  whose  bells  we  heard,  was  its  ob 
scure  north  district  only,  and  the  giant  weaver 
was  not  yet  fairly  born.  So  old  are  we;  so 
young  is  it. 

We  were  thus  entering  the  State  of  New 
Hampshire  on  the  bosom  of  the  flood  formed  by 
the  tribute  of  its  innumerable  valleys.  ,The 
river  was  the  only  key  which  could  unlock  its 
maze,  presenting  its  hills  and  valleys,  its  lakes 
and  streams,  in  their  natural  order  and  position. 
The  Merrimack,  or  Sturgeon  River,  is  formed 
by  the  confluence  of  the  Pemigewasset,  which 
rises  near  the  Notch  of  the  White  Mountains, 
and  the  Winnipiseogee,  which  drains  the  lake 
of  the  same  name,  signifying  "The  Smile  of  the 
Great  Spirit."  From  their  junction  it  runs 
south  seventy-eight  miles  to  Massachusetts,  and 
thence  east  thirty -five  miles  to  the  sea.  I  have 
traced  its  stream  from  where  it  bubbles  out  of 
the  rocks  of  the  White  Mountains  above  the 


SUNDAY  107 

clouds,  to  where  it  is  lost  amid  the  salt  billows 
of  the  ocean  on  Plum  Island  beach.  At  first  it 
comes  on  murmuring  to  itself  by  the  base  of 
stately  and  retired  mountains,  through  moist 
primitive  woods  whose  juices  it  receives,  where 
the  bear  still  drinks  it,  and  the  cabins  of  set 
tlers  are  far  between,  and  there  are  few  to  cross 
its  stream;  enjoying  in  solitude  its  cascades 
still  unknown  to  fame ;  by  long  ranges  of  moun 
tains  of  Sandwich  and  of  Squam,  slumbering 
like  tumuli  of  Titans,  with  the  peaks  of  Moose- 
hillock,  the  Haystack,  and  Kearsarge  reflected 
in  its  waters;  where  the  maple  and  the  rasp 
berry,  those  lovers  of  the  hills,  flourish  amid 
temperate  dews;  —  flowing  long  and  full  of 
meaning,  but  untranslatable  as  its  name  Pemi- 
gewasset,  by  many  a  pastured  Pelion  and  Ossa, 
where  unnamed  muses  haunt,  tended  by  Oreads, 
Dryads,  Naiads,  and  receiving  the  tribute  of 
many  an  untasted  Hippocrene.  There  are 
earth,  air,  fire,  and  water,  —  very  well,  this  is 
water,  and  down  it  comes. 

Such  water  do  the  gods  distill, 
And  pour  down  every  hill 

For  their  New  England  men ; 
A  draught  of  this  wild  nectar  bring, 
And  I  '11  not  taste  the  spring 

Of  Helicon  again. 

Falling  all  the  way,  and  yet  not  discouraged  by 
the  lowest  fall.  By  the  law  of  its  birth  never 


108  A   WEEK 

to  become  stagnant,  for  it  Has  come  out  of  the 
clouds,  and  down  the  sides  of  precipices  worn 
in  the  flood,  through  beaver-dams  broke  loose, 
not  splitting  but  splicing  and  mending  itself, 
until  it  found  a  breathing-place  in  this  low  land. 
There  is  no  danger  now  that  the  sun  will  steal 
it  back  to  heaven  again  before  it  reach  the  sea, 
for  it  has  a  warrant  even  to  recover  its  own 
dews  into  its  bosom  again  with  interest  at  every 
eve. 

It  was  already  the  water  of  Squam  and  New 
found  Lake  and  Winnipiseogee,  and  White 
Mountain  snow  dissolved,  on  which  we  were 
floating,  and  Smith's  and  Baker's  and  Mad 
Rivers,  and  Nashua  and  Souhegan  and  Piscata- 
quoag,  and  Suncook  and  Soucook  and  Contoo- 
cook,  mingled  in  incalculable  proportions,  still 
fluid,  yellowish,  restless  all,  with  an  ancient, 
ineradicable  inclination  to  the  sea. 

So  it  flows  on  down  by  Lowell  and  Haverhill, 
at  which  last  place  it  first  suffers  a  sea  change, 
and  a  few  masts  betray  the  vicinity  of  the 
ocean.  Between  the  towns  of  Amesbury  and 
Newbury  it  is  a  broad,  commercial  river,  from  a 
third  to  half  a  mile  in  width,  no  longer  skirted 
with  yellow  and  crumbling  banks,  but  backed 
by  high  green  hills  and  pastures,  with  frequent 
white  beaches  on  which  the  fishermen  draw  up 
their  nets.  I  have  passed  down  this  portion  of 


SUNDAY  109 

the  river  in  a  steamboat,  and  it  was  a  pleasant 
bight  to  watch  from  its  deck  the  fishermen  drag 
ging  their  seines  on  the  distant  shore,  as  in  pic 
tures  of  a  foreign  strand.  At  intervals  you 
may  meet  with  a  schooner  laden  with  lumber, 
standing  up  to  Haverhill,  or  else  lying  at  an 
chor  or  aground,  waiting  for  wind  or  tide; 
until,  at  last,  you  glide  under  the  famous  Chain 
Bridge,  and  are  landed  at  Newburyport.  Thus 
she  who  at  first  was  "poore  of  waters,  naked  of 
renowne,"  having  received  so  many  fair  tribu 
taries,  as  was  said  of  the  Forth,  — 

"  Doth  grow  the  greater  still,  the  further  downe ; 
Till  that  abounding  both  in  power  and  fame, 
She  long  doth  strive  to  give  the  sea  her  name  ;  " 

or  if  not  her  name,  in  this  case,  at  least  the 
impulse  of  her  stream.  From  the  steeples  of 
Newburyport  you  may  review  this  river  stretch 
ing  far  up  into  the  country,  with  many  a  white 
sail  glancing  over  it  like  an  inland  sea,  and  be 
hold,  as  one  wrote  who  was  born  on  its  head 
waters,  "Down  out  at  its  mouth,  the  dark  inky 
main  blending  with  the  blue  above.  Plum  Is 
land,  its  sand  ridges  scolloping  along  the  hori 
zon  like  the  sea-serpent,  and  the  distant  outline 
broken  by  many  a  tall  ship,  leaning,  still 9 
against  the  sky." 

Rising  at  an  equal  height  with  the  Connecti 
cut,  the  Merrimack  reaches  the  sea  by  a  course 


110  A   WEEK 

only  half  as  long,  and  hence  has  no  leisure  to 
form  broad  and  fertile  meadows,  like  the  for 
mer,  but  is  hurried  along  rapids,  and  down 
numerous  falls,  without  long  delay.  The  banks 
are  generally  steep  and  high,  with  a  narrow  in 
terval  reaching  back  to  the  hills,  which  is  only 
rarely  or  partially  overflown  at  present,  and  is 
much  valued  by  the  farmers.  Between  Chelms- 
ford  and  Concord,  in  New  Hampshire,  it  varies 
from  twenty  to  seventy -five  rods  in  width.  It 
is  probably  wider  than  it  was  formerly,  in  many 
places,  owing  to  the  trees  having  been  cut  down, 
and  the  consequent  wasting  away  of  its  banks. 
.The  influence  of  the  Pawtucket  Dam  is  felt  as 
far  up  as  Cromwell's  Falls,  and  many  think 
that  the  banks  are  being  abraded  and  the  river 
filled  up  again  by  this  cause.  Like  all  our 
rivers,  it  is  liable  to  freshets,  and  the  Pemige- 
wasset  has  been  known  to  rise  twenty-five  feet 
in  a  few  hours.  It  is  navigable  for  vessels  of 
burden  about  twenty  miles;  for  canal -boats, 
by  means  of  locks,  as  far  as  Concord  in  New 
Hampshire,  about  seventy -five  miles  from  its 
mouth;  and  for  smaller  boats  to  Plymouth,  one 
hundred  and  thirteen  miles.  A  small  steam 
boat  once  plied  between  Lowell  and  Nashua, 
before  the  railroad  was  built,  and  one  now  runs 
from  Newburyport  to  Haverhill. 

Unfitted  to  some  extent  for  the  purposes  of 


SUNDAY  111 

commerce  by  the  sand-bar  at  its  mouth,  see  how 
this  river  was  devoted  from  the  first  to  the 
service  of  manufactures.  Issuing  from  the 
iron  region  of  Franconia,  and  flowing  through 
still  uncut  forests,  by  inexhaustible  ledges  of 
granite,  with  Squam,  and  Winnipiseogee,  and 
Newfound,  and  Massabesic  Lakes  for  its  mill- 
ponds,  it  falls  over  a  succession  of  natural 
dams,  where  it  has  been  offering  its  privileges 
in  vain  for  ages,  until  at  last  the  Yankee  race 
came  to  improve  them.  Standing  at  its  mouth, 
look  up  its  sparkling  stream  to  its  source,  —  a 
silver  cascade  which  falls  all  the  way  from  the 
White  Mountains  to  the  sea,  —  and  behold  a 
city  on  each  successive  plateau,  a.  busy  colony 
»of  human  beaver  around  every  fall.  Not  to 
mention  Newburyport  and  Haverhill,  see  Law 
rence,  and  Lowell,  and  Nashua,  and  Manches 
ter,  and  Concord,  gleaming  one  above  the  other. 
When  at  length  it  has  escaped  from  under  the 
last  of  the  factories,  it  has  a  level  and  unmo 
lested  passage  to  the  sea,  a  mere  waste  water, 
as  it  were,  bearing  little  with  it  but  its  fame ; 
its  pleasant  course  revealed  by  the  morning  fog 
which  hangs  over  it,  and  the  sails  of  the  few 
small  vessels  which  transact  the  commerce  of 
Haverhill  and  Newburyport.  But  its  real  ves 
sels  are  railroad  cars,  and  its  true  and  main 
stream,  flowing  by  an  iron  channel  farther 


112  A  WEEK 

south,  may  be  traced  by  a  long  line  of  vapor 
amid  the  hills,  which  no  morning  wind  ever  dis 
perses,  to  where  it  empties  into  the  sea  at  Bos 
ton.  This  side  is  the  louder  murmur  now. 
Instead  of  the  scream  of  a  fish-hawk  scaring  the 
fishes,  is  heard  the  whistle  of  the  steam-engine, 
arousing  a  country  to  its  progress. 

This  river  too  was  at  length  discovered  by 
the  white  man,  "trending  up  into  the  land,"  he 
knew  not  how  far,  possibly  an  inlet  to  the  South 
Sea.  Its  valley,  as  far  as  the  Winnipiseogee, 
was  first  surveyed  in  1652.  The  first  settlers 
of  Massachusetts  supposed  that  the  Connecticut, 
in  one  part  of  its  course,  ran  northwest,  "so 
near  the  great  lake  as  the  Indians  do  pass  their 
canoes  into  it  over  land."  From  which  lake 
and  the  "hideous  swamps"  about  it,  as  they 
supposed,  came  all  the  beaver  that  was  traded 
between  Virginia  and  Canada,  —  and  the  Poto 
mac  was  thought  to  come  out  of  or  from  very 
near  it.  Afterward  the  Connecticut  came  so 
near  the  course  of  the  Merrimack  that,  with  a 
little  pains,  they  expected  to  divert  the  current 
of  the  trade  into  the  latter  river,  and  its  profits 
from  their  Dutch  neighbors  into  their  own 
pockets. 

Unlike  the  Concord,  the  Merrimack  is  not  a 
dead  but  a  living  stream,  though  it  has  less  life 


SUNDAY  113 

within  its  waters  and  on  its  banks.  It  has  a 
swift  current,  and,  in  this  part  of  its  course,  a 
clayey  bottom,  almost  no  weeds,  and  compara 
tively  few  fishes.  We  looked  down  into  its  yel 
low  water  with  the  more  curiosity,  who  were 
accustomed  to  the  Nile-like  blackness  of  the 
former  river.  Shad  and  alewives  are  taken 
here  in  their  season,  but  salmon,  though  at  one 
time  more  numerous  than  shad,  are  now  more 
rare.  Bass,  also,  are  taken  occasionally;  but 
locks  and  dams  have  proved  more  or  less  de 
structive  to  the  fisheries.  The  shad  make  their 
appearance  early  in  May,  at  the  same  time  with 
the  blossoms  of  the  pyrus,  one  of  the  most  con 
spicuous  early  flowers,  which  is  for  this  reason 
called  the  shad-blossom.  An  insect  called  the 
shad-fly  also  appears  at  the  same  time,  cover 
ing  the  houses  and  fences.  We  are  told  that 
"their  greatest  run  is  when  the  apple-trees  are 
in  full  blossom.  The  old  shad  return  in  Au 
gust;  the  young,  three  or  four  inches  long,  in 
September.  These  are  very  fond  of  flies."  A 
rather  picturesque  and  luxurious  mode  of  fish 
ing  was  formerly  practiced  on  the  Connecticut, 
at  Bellows  Falls,  where  a  large  rock  divides  the 
stream.  "On  the  steep  sides  of  the  island 
rock,"  says  Belknap,  "hang  several  arm-chairs, 
fastened  to  ladders,  and  secured  by  a  counter 
poise,  in  which  fishermen  sit  to  catch  salmon 


114  A   WEEK 

and  shad  with  dipping  nets."  The  remains  of 
Indian  weirs,  made  of  large  stones,  are  still  to 
be  seen  in  the  Winnipiseogee,  one  of  the  head 
waters  of  this  river. 

It  cannot  but  affect  our  philosophy  favorably 
to  be  reminded  of  these  shoals  of  migratory 
fishes,  of  salmon,  shad,  alewives,  marsh-bank 
ers,  and  others,  which  penetrate  up  the  innu 
merable  rivers  of  our  coast  in  the  spring,  even 
to  the  interior  lakes,  their  scales  gleaming  in 
the  sun;  and  again,  of  the  fry  which  in  still 
greater  numbers  wend  their  way  downward  to 
the  sea.  "And  is  it  not  pretty  sport,"  wrote 
Captain  John  Smith,  who  was  on  this  coast  as 
early  as  1614,  "to  pull  up  twopence,  sixpence, 
and  twelvepence,  as  fast  as  you  can  haul  and 
veer  a  line?"  "And  what  sport  doth  yield  ff, 
more  pleasing  content,  and  less  hurt  or  charge, 
than  angling  with  a  hook,  and  crossing  the 
sweet  air  from  isle  to  isle,  over  the  silent 
streams  of  a  calm  sea." 

On  the  sandy  shore,  opposite  the  Glass-house 
village  in  Chelmsford,  at  the  Great  Bend  where 
we  landed  to  rest  us  and  gather  a  few  wild 
plums,  we  discovered  the  Campanula  rotundi- 
folia,  a  new  flower  to  us,  the  harebell  of  the 
poets,  which  is  common  to  both  hemispheres, 
growing  close  to  the  water.  Here,  in  the  shady 


SUNDAY  115 

branches  of  an  apple-tree  on  the  sand,  we  took 
our  nooning,  where  there  was  not  a  zephyr  to 
disturb  the  repose  of  this  glorious  Sabbath  day, 
and  we  reflected  serenely  on  the  long  past  and 
successful  labors  of  Latona. 

"  So  silent  is  the  cessile  air, 

That  every  cry  and  call, 
The  hills,  and  dales,  and  forest  fair 
Again  repeats  them  all. 

"The  herds  beneath  some  leafy  trees, 

Amidst  the  flowers  they  lie, 

The  stable  ships  upon  the  seas 

Tend  up  their  sails  to  dry." 

As  we  thus  rested  in  the  shade,  or  rowed  lei 
surely  along,  we  had  recourse,  from  time  to 
time,  to  the  Gazetteer,  which  was  our  Naviga 
tor,  and  from  its  bald  natural  facts  extracted 
the  pleasure  of  poetry.  Beaver  River  comes 
in  a  little  lower  down,  draining  the  meadows 
of  Pelham,  Windham,  and  Londonderry.  The 
Scotch-Irish  settlers  of  the  latter  town,  accord 
ing  to  this  authority,  were  the  first  to  introduce 
the  potato  into  New  England,  as  well  as  the 
manufacture  of  linen  cloth. 

Everything  that  is  printed  and  bound  in  a 
book  contains  some  echo  at  least  of  the  best  that 
is  in  literature.  Indeed,  the  best  books  have 
a  use,  like  sticks  and  stones,  which  is  above 
or  beside  their  design,  not  anticipated  in  the 


116  A   WEEK 

preface,  not  concluded  in  the  appendix.  Even 
Virgil's  poetry  serves  a  very  different  use  to  me 
to-day  from  what  it  did  to  his  contemporaries. 
It  has  often  an  acquired  and  accidental  value 
merely,  proving  that  man  is  still  man  in  the 
world.  It  is  pleasant  to  meet  with  such  still 
lines  as,  — 

"Jam  laeto  turgent  in  palmite  gemmae  ;  " 
Now  the  buds  swell  on  the  joyful  stem. 

"  Strata  jacent  passim  sua  quaeque  sub  arbore  poma  ;  " 
The  apples  lie  scattered  everywhere,  each  under  its  tree. 

In  an  ancient  and  dead  language,  any  recog 
nition  of  living  nature  attracts  us.  These  are 
such  sentences  as  were  written  while  grass  grew 
and  water  ran.  It  is  no  small  recommendation 
when  a  book  will  stand  the  test  of  mere  unob 
structed  sunshine  and  daylight. 

What  would  we  not  give  for  some  great  poem 
to  read  now,  which  would  be  in  harmony  with 
the  scenery,  — for  if  men  read  aright,  methinks 
they  would  never  reacL  anything  but  poems. 
]S[o_history  nor  philosophy  can  supply  their 
place. 


The  wisest  definition  of  poetry  the  poet  will 
instantly  prove  false  by  setting  aside  its  requi 
sitions.  We  can,  therefore,  publish  only  our 
advertisement  of  it. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  loftiest  written 


SUNDAY  117 

wisclom  is  either  rhymed,  or  in  some  way  musi 
cally  measured,  —  is,  in  form  as  well  as  sub 
stance,  poetry  ;  and  a  volume  which  should  con 
tain  the  condensed  wisdom  of  mankind  need  not 
have  one  rhythmless  line. 

Yet  poetry,  though  the  last  and  finest  result, 
is  a  natural  fruit.  As  naturally  as  the  oak 
bears  an  acorn,  and  the  vine  a  gourd,  man  bears 
a  poem,  either  spoken  or  done.  It  is  the  chief 
and  most  memorable  success,  £Qr_history  is  but 
j^  proaq  n^rratiye_of^oetin^dftft(1s.  What  else 
have  the  Hindoos,  the  Persians,  the  Babyloni 
ans,  the  Egyptians  done,  that  can  be  told  ?  It 
is  the  simplest  relation  of  phenomena,  and  de 
scribes  the  commonest  sensations  with  more 
truth  than  sjejenjce  does,  and  the  latter  at  a  dis- 
sJLowly_  mimics  its  style  and  methods. 


The  poet  sings  how  the  blood  flows  in  his  veins. 
He  performs  his  functions,  and  is  so  well  that 
he  needs  such  stimulus  to  sing  only  as  plants 
to  put  forth  leaves  and  blossoms.  He  would 
strive  in  vain  to  modulate  the  remote  and  tran 
sient  music  which  he  sometimes  hears,  since  his 
is  SLjital  function  like  breathing,  and  an 


integral  result  like  weight,  Jt-iauiQt_the  over-^ 
jflowing  of  life,  but  its  subsidence  rather,  and 
is  drawn  from  under  the  feet  of  the  poet.  It  is 

•»     "    '        """         "—"  ~~-  —  —  •     ~~"          -"«  -       „          ,,I|^  r  %  i  i 

enough  if  Homer  but  say  the  sun  sets.  He  is 
<4s  serene  as^nature,  and  we  can  hardly  detect 


118  A   WEEK 

the  enthusiasm  of  the  bard.  It  is  aa  if  nature 
<-»poke.  He  presents  to  us  the  simplest  pictures 
of  human  life,  so  the  child  itself  can  understand 
them,  and  the  man  must  not  think  twice  to  ap 
preciate  his  naturalness.  Each  reader  discov 
ers  for  himself  that,  with  respect  to  the  simpler 
features  of  nature,  succeeding  poets  have  done 
little  else  than  copy  his  similes.  His  more 
memorable  passages  are  as  naturally  bright  as 
gleams  of  sunshine  in  misty  weather.  Nature 
furnishes  him  not  only  with  words,  but  with 
stereotyped  lines  and  sentences  from  her  mint. 

"  As  from  the  clouds  appears  the  full  moon, 
All  shining,  and  then  again  it  goes  behind  the  shadowy 

clouds, 

So  Hector,  at  one  time  appeared  among  the  foremost, 
And  at  another  in  the  rear,  commanding ;  and  all  with  brass 
He  shone,  like  to  the  lightning  of  segis-bearing  Zeus." 

He  conveys  the  least  information,  even  the 
hour  of  the  day,  with  such  magnificence  and 
vast  expense  of  natural  imagery,  as  if  it  were  a 
message  from  the  gods. 

"  While  it  was  dawn,  and  sacred  day  was  advancing, 
For  that  space  the  weapons  of  both  flew  fast,  and  the  peo 
ple  fell; 
But  when  now  the  woodcutter  was  preparing  his  morning 

meal, 

In  the  recesses  of  the  mountain,  and  had  wearied  his  hands 
With  cutting  lofty  trees,  and  satiety  came  to  his  mind, 
And  the  desire  of  sweet  food  took  possession  of  his  thoughts ; 
Then  the  Danaans,  by  their  valor,  broke  the  phalanxes, 
Shouting  to  their  companions  from  rank  to  rank." 


SUNDAY  119 

When  the  army  of  the  Trojans  passed  the 
night  under  arms,  keeping  watch  lest  the  enemy 
should  reembark  under  cover  of  the  dark,  — 

"They,  thinking  great  things,  upon  the  neutral  ground   of 

war 

Sat  all  the  night ;  and  many  fires  burned  for  them. 
As  when  in  the  heavens  the  stars  round  the  bright  moon 
Appear  beautiful,  and  the  air  is  without  wind ; 
And  all  the  heights,  and  the  extreme  summits, 
And  the  wooded  sides  of  the  mountains  appear ;  and  from 

the  heavens  an  infinite  ether  is  diffused, 
And  all  the  stars  are  seen ;  and  the  shepherd  rejoices  in  his 

heart ; 

So  between  the  ships  and  the  streams  of  Xanthua 
Appeared  the  fires  of  the  Trojans  before  Ilium. 
A  thousand  fires  burned  on  the  plain ;  and  by  each 
Sat  fifty,  in  the  light  of  the  blazing  fire ; 
And  horses  eating  white  barley  and  corn, 
Standing  by  the  chariots,  awaited  fair-throned  Aurora." 

The  "white-armed  goddess  Juno,"  sent  by 
the  Father  of  gods  and  men  for  Iris  and 
Apollo,  — 

"  Went  down  the  Idsean  mountains  to  far  Olympus, 
As  when  the  mind  of  a  man,  who  has  come  over  much  earth, 
Sallies  forth,  and  he  reflects  with  rapid  thoughts, 
There  was  I,  and  there,  and  remembers  many  things ; 
So  swiftly  the  august  Juno  hastening  flew  through  the  air, 
And  came  to  high  Olympus." 

His  scenery  is  always  true,  and  not  invented. 
He  does  not  leap  in  imagination  from  Asia  to 
Greece,  through  mid  air,  — 

iirei^i  fj.d\a 
Oupfd  re  CTKi6fvrat  6d\affffd  T« 


120  A   WEEK 

For  there  are  very  many 
Shady  mountains  and  resounding  seas  between. 

If  his  messengers  repair  but  to  the  tent  of 
Achilles,  we  do  not  wonder  how  they  got  there, 
but  accompany  them  step  by  step  along  the 
shore  of  the  resounding  sea.  Nestor's  account 
of  the  march  of  the  Pylians  against  the  Epeians 
is  extremely  lifelike :  — 

"Then  rose  up  to  them  sweet-worded  Nestor,  the  shrill  orator 

of  the  Pylians, 
And  words  sweeter  than  honey  flowed  from  his  tongue." 

This  time,  however,  he  addresses  Patroclus 
alone:  "A  certain  river,  Minyas  by  name,  leaps 
seaward  near  to  Arene,  where  we  Pylians  wait 
the  dawn,  both  horse  and  foot.  Thence  with 
all  haste  we  sped  us  on  the  morrow  ere  't  was 
noonday,  accoutred  for  the  fight,  even  to  Al- 
pheus's  sacred  source,"  etc.  We  fancy  that 
we  hear  the  subdued  murmuring  of  the  Minyas 
discharging  its  waters  into  the  main  the  live 
long  night,  and  the  hollow  sound  of  the  waves 
breaking  on  the  shore,  —  until  at  length  we  are 
cheered  at  the  close  of  a  toilsome  march  by  the 
gurgling  fountains  of  Alpheus. 

There  are  few  books  which  are  fit  to  be  re 
membered  in  our  wisest  hours,  but  the  Iliad  is 
brightest  in  the  serenest  days,  and  embodies 
still  all  the  sunlight  that  fell  on  Asia  Minor. 
No  modern  joy  or  ecstasy  of  ours  can  lower  its 


SUNDAY  121 

height  or  dim  its  lustre,  but  there  it  lies  in  the 
east  of  literature,  as  it  were  the  earliest  and 
latest  production  of  the  mind.  The  ruins  of 
Egypt  oppress  and  stifle  us  with  their  dust, 
foulness  preserved  in  cassia  and  pitch,  and 
swathed  in  linen ;  the  death  of  that  which  never 
lived.  But  the  rays  of  Greek  poetry  struggle 
down  to  us,  and  mingle  with  the  sunbeams  of 
the  recent  day.  The  statue  of  Memnon  is  cast 
down,  but  the  shaft  of  the  Iliad  still  meets  the 
sun  in  his  rising. 

"  Homer  is  gone  ;  and  where  is  Jove  ?  and  where 
The  rival  cities  seven  ?     His  song  outlives 
Time,  tower,  and  god,  — all  that  then  was,  save  Heaven.'* 

So,  too,  no  doubt,  Homer  had  his  Homer, 
and  Orpheus  his  Orpheus,  in  the  dim  antiquity 
which  preceded  them.  The  mythological  sys 
tem  of  the  ancients,  and  it  is  still  the  mythology 
of  the  moderns,  the  poem  of  mankind,  inter 
woven  so  wonderfully  with  their  astronomy, 
and  matching  in  grandeur  and  harmony  the 
architecture  of  the  heavens  themselves,  seems 
to  point  to  a  time  when  a  mightier  genius  in 
habited  the  earth.  But,  after  all,  man  is  the 
great  poet,  and  not  Homer  nor  Shakespeare; 
and  our  language  itself,  and  the  common  arts 
of  life,  are  his  work.  Poetry  is  so  universally 
true  and  independent  of  experience  that  it  does 
not  need  any  particular  biography  to  illustrate 


122  A  WEEK 

it,  but  we  refer  it  sooner  or  later  to  some  Or 
pheus  or  Linus,  and  after  ages  to  the  genius  of 
humanity  and  the  gods  themselves. 

It  would  be  worth  the  while  to  select  our 
reading,  for  books  are  the  society  we  keep ;  to 
read  only  the  serenely  true;  never  statistics, 
nor  fiction,  nor  news,  nor  reports,  nor  period 
icals,  but  only  great  poems,  and  when  they 
failed,  read  them  again,  or  perchance  write 
more.  Instead  of  other  sacrifice,  we  might 
offer  up  our  perfect  (reAcm)  thoughts  to  the  gods 
daily,  in  hymns  or  psalms.  For  we  should  be 
at  the  helm  at  least  once  a  day.  The  whole  of 
the  day  should  not  be  daytime ;  there  should  be 
one  hour,  if  no  more,  which  the  day  did  not 
bring  forth.  Scholars  are  wont  to  sell  their 
birthright  for  a  mess  of  learning.  But  is  it 
necessary  to  know  what  the  speculator  prints, 
or  the  thoughtless  study,  or  the  idle  read,  the 
literature  of  the  Russians  and  the  Chinese,  or 
even  French  philosophy  and  much  of  German 
criticism?  Eead  the  best  books  first,  or  you 
may  not  have  a  chance  to  read  them  at  all. 
44  There  are  the  worshipers  with  offerings,  and 
the  worshipers  with  mortifications;  and  again 
the  worshipers  with  enthusiastic  devotion; 
so  there  are  those  the  wisdom  of  whose  reading 
is  their  worship,  men  of  subdued  passions  and 


SUNDA  Y  123 

severe  manners;  —  This  world  is  not  for  him 
who  doth  not  worship;  and  where,  O  Arjoon,  is 
there  another?  "  Certainly,  we  do  not  need  to 
be  soothed  and  entertained  always  like  children. 
He  who  resorts  to  the  easy  novel,  because  he  is 
languid,  does  no  better  than  if  he  took  a  nap. 
The  front  aspect  of  great  thoughts  can  only  be 
enjoyed  by  those  who  stand  on  the  side  whence 
they  arrive.  Books,  not  which  afford  us  a 
cowering  enjoyment,  but  in  which  each  thought 
jsj)f  unusual^  daring^  such  as  an  idle  man  can 
not  read,  and  a  timid  one  would  not  be  enter 
tained  by,  which  eyeiL-inake  us  dangerous  to 
existing  institutions,  —  such  call  I  good  books. 

All  that  are  printed  and  bound  are  not 
books ;  they  do  not  necessarily  belong  to  letters, 
but  are  oftener  to  be  ranked  with  the  other  lux 
uries  and  appendages  of  civilized  life.  Base 
wares  are  palmed  off  under  a  thousand  dis 
guises.  "The  way  to  trade,"  as  a  peddler  once 
told  me,  "is  to  put  it  right  through,"  no  matter 
what  it  is,  anything  that  is  agreed  on. 

"  You  grov'ling  worldlings,  you  whose  wisdom  trades 
Where  light  ne'er  shot  his  golden  ray." 

By  dint  of  able  writing  and  pen-craft,  books 
are  cunningly  compiled,  and  have  their  run  and 
success  even  among  the  learned,  as  if  they  were 
the  result  of  a  new  man's  thinking,  and  their 
birth  were  attended  with  some  natural  throes. 


124  A  WEEK 

But  in  a  little  while  their  covers  fall  off,  for 
no  binding  will  avail,  and  it  appears  that  they 
are  not  Books  or  Bibles  at  all.  There  are  new 
and  patented  inventions  in  this  shape,  purport 
ing  to  be  for  the  elevation  of  the  race,  which 
many  a  pure  scholar  and  genius  who  has  learned 
to  read  is  for  a  moment  deceived  by,  and  finds 
himself  reading  a  horse-rake,  or  spinning- jenny, 
or  wooden  nutmeg,  or  oak-leaf  cigar,  or  steam- 
power  press,  or  kitchen  range,  perchance,  when 
he  was  seeking  serene  and  biblical  truths. 

"Merchants,  arise, 
And  mingle  conscience  with  your  merchandise." 

Paper  is  cheap,  and  authors  need  not  now  erase 
one  book  before  they  write  another.  Instead 
of  cultivating  the  earth  for  wheat  and  potatoes, 
they  cultivate  literature,  and  fill  a  place  in  the 
Eepublic  of  Letters.  Or  they  would  fain  write 
for  fame  merely,  as  others  actually  raise  crops 
of  grain  to  be  distilled  into  brandy.  Books  are 
for  the  most  part  willfully  and  hastily  written, 
as  parts  of  a  system  to  supply  a  want  real  or 
imagined.  Books  of  natural  history  aim  com 
monly  to  be  hasty  schedules,  or  inventories  of 
God's  property,  by  some  clerk.  They  do  not 
in  the  least  teach  the  divine  view  of  nature,  but 
the  popular  view,  or  rather  the  popular  method 
of  studying  nature,  and  make  haste  to  conduct 
the  persevering  pupil  only  into  that  dilemma 
where  the  professors  always  dwell. 


SUNDAY  125 

"  To  Athens  gowned  he  goes,  and  from  that  school 
Returns  unsped,  a  more  instructed  fool." 

They  teach  the  elements  really  of  ignorance, 
not  of  knowledge ;  for,  to  speak  deliberately  and 
in  view  of  the  highest  truths,  it  is  not  easy  to 
distinguish  elementary  knowledge.  ,  There  is  a 
chasm  between  knowledge  and  ignorance  which 
the  arches  of  science  can  never  span.  A  book 
should  contain  pure  discoveries,  glimpses  of 
^terra^-firma,  thoughjby  shipwrecked  mariners, 
and  not  the  art  of  navigation  by  those  who  have 
never  been  out  of  sight  of  land.  They  must 
not  yield  wheat  and  potatoes,  but  must  them 
selves  be  the  unconstrained  and  natural  harvest 
of  their  author's  lives. 

"  What  I  have  learned  is  mine ;  I  've  had  my  thought, 
And  me  the  Muses  noble  truths  have  taught." 

We  do  not  learn  much  from  learned  books, 
but  from  true,  sincere,  human  books,  from 
frank  and  honest  biographies.  The  life  of  a 
good  man  will  hardly  improve  us  more  than  the 
life  of  a  freebooter,  for  the  inevitable  laws  ap- 
_gear__as., plainly  in  the  infringement  as  in  the 
obsgrva.np.ft,  and  ,0ur_-liveSu_aEe sustained  by  a 
yearly  equal  expense  ofjvirtue  of  some  kind. 
The  decaying  tree,  while  yet  it  lives,  demands 
sun,  wind,  and  rain  no  less  than  the  green  one. 
It  secretes  sap  and  performs  the  functions  of 
health.  If  we  choose,  we  may  study  the  albur- 


126  A  WEEK 

num  only.     The  gnarled  stump  has  as  tender  a 
bud  as  the  sapling. 

At  least  let  us  have  healthy  books,  a  stout 
horse-rake,  or  a  kitchen  range  which  is  not 
cracked.  Let  not  the  poet  shed  tears  only  for 
the  public  weal.  He  should  be  as  vigorous  as 
a  sugar-maple,  with  sap  enough  to  maintain  his 
own  verdure,  beside  what  runs  into  the  troughs, 
and  not  like  a  vine,  which  being  cut  in  the 
spring  bears  no  fruit,  but  bleeds  to  death  in  the 
jmdeavor  to  heal  its  wounds.  The  poet  is  he 
that  hath  fat  enough,  like  bears  and  marmots, 
IQ  suck  his  clawj^all  winter*  He  hibernates 
in  this  world,  and  jeeds  JOB  his^own  marrow. 
We  love  to  think  in  winter,  as  we  waHT~dver 
the  snowy  pastures,  of  those  happy  dreamers 
that  lie  under  the  sod,  of  dormice  and  all  that 
race  of  dormant  creatures,  which  have  such  a 
superfluity  of  life  enveloped  in  thick  folds  of 
fur,  impervious  to  cold.  Alas,  the  poet  too  is 
in  one  sense  a  sort  of  dorjnmise  gone  into  win 
ter  quarters  of  deep  and  serene  thoughts,  insen 
sible  to  surrounding  circumstances;  his  words 
are  the  relation  of  his  oldest  and  finest  mem 
ory,  a  wisdom  drawn  from  the  remotest  expe 
rience.  Other  men  lead  a  starved  existence, 
meanwhile,  like  Jyi.wlra7  that  would  fain  keep 
on  the  wing,  and  trust  to  pick  up  a  sparrow 
now  and  then. 


SUNDAY  127 

There  are  already  essays  and  poems,  the 
growth  of  this  land,  which  are  not  in  vain,  all 
which,  however,  we  could  conveniently  have 
stowed  in  the  till  of  our  chest.  If  the  gods  per 
mitted  their  own  inspiration  to  be  breathed  in 
vain,  these  might  be  overlooked  in  the  crowd, 
but  the  accents  of  truth  are  as  sure  to  be  heard 
at  last  on  earth  as  in  heaven.  They  already 
seem  ancient,  and  in  some  measure  have  lost 
the  traces  of  their  modern  birth.  Here  are 
they  who 

"ask  for  that  which  is  our  whole  life's  light, 
For  the  perpetual,  true,  and  clear  insight." 

I  remember  a  few  sentences  which  spring  like 
the  sward  in  its  native  pasture,  where  its  roots 
were  never  disturbed,  and  not  as  if  spread  over 
a  sandy  embankment;  answering  to  the  poet's 
prayer,  — 

"  Let  us  set  so  just 

A  rate  on  knowledge,  that  the  world  may  trust 
The  poet's  sentence,  and  not  still  aver 
Each  art  is  to  itself  a  flatterer." 

But,  above  all,  in  our  native  port,  did  we  not 
frequent  the  peaceful  games  of  the  Lyceum, 
from  which  a  new  era  will  be  dated  to  New 
England,  as  from  the  games  of  Greece.  For 
if  Herodotus  carried  his  history  to  Olympia  to 
read,  after  the  cestus  and  the  race,  have  we  not 
heard  such  histories  recited  there,  which  since 


128  A   WEEK 

our  countrymen  have  read,  as  made  Greece 
sometimes  to  be  forgotten?  Philosophy,  too, 
has  there  her  grove  and  portico,  not  wholly 
unfrequented  in  these  days. 

Lately  the  victor,  whom  all  Pindars  praised, 
has  won  another  palm,  contending  with 

44  Olympian  bards  who  sung 
Divine  ideas  below, 
Which  always  find  us  young, 
And  always  keep  us  so." 

What  earth  or  sea,  mountain  or  stream,  or 
Muses'  spring  or  grove,  is  safe  from  his  all- 
searching,  ardent  eye,  who  drives  off  Phoebus' 
beaten  track,  visits  unwonted  zones,  makes  the 
gelid  Hyperboreans  glow,  and  the  old  polar 
serpent  writhe,  and  many  a  Nile  flow  back  and 
hide  his  head! 

That  Phaeton  of  our  day, 

Who  'd  make  another  milky  way, 

And  burn  the  world  up  with  his  ray, 

By  us  an  undisputed  seer,  — 

Who  'd  drive  his  flaming  car  so  near 

Unto  our  shuddering  mortal  sphere, 

Disgracing  all  our  slender  worth, 
And  scorching  up  the  living  earth, 
To  prove  his  heavenly  birth. 

The  silver  spokes,  the  golden  tire, 
Are  glowing  with  unwonted  fire, 
And  ever  nigher  roll  and  nigher; 


SUNDAY  129 

The  pins  and  axle  melted  are, 

The  silver  radii  fly  afar, 

Ah,  he  will  spoil  his  Father's  car! 

Who  let  him  have  the  steeds  he  cannot  steer  ? 
Henceforth  the  sun  will  not  shine  for  a  year ; 
And  we  shall  Ethiops  all  appear. 

From  his 

"  lips  of  cunning  fell 
The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle." 

And  yet,  sometimes, — 

We  should  not  mind  if  on  our  ear  there  fell 
Some  less  of  cunning,  more  of  oracle. 

It  is  Apollo  shining  in  your  face.  O  rare  Con 
temporary,  let  us  have  far-off  heats.  Give  us 
the  subtler,  the  heavenlier,  though  fleeting 
beauty,  which  passes  through  and  through,  and 
dwells  not  in  the  verse ;  even  pure  water,  which 
but  reflects  those  tints  which  wine  wears  in  its 
grain.  Let  epic  trade-winds  blow,  and  cease 
this  waltz  of  inspirations.  Let  us  oftener  feel 
even  the  gentle  southwest  wind  upon  our  cheeks 
blowing  from  the  Indian's  heaven.  What 
though  we  lose  a  thousand  meteors  from  the 
sky,  if  skyey  depths,  if  star-dust  and  undissolv- 
able  nebulae  remain  ?  What  though  we  lose  a 
thousand  wise  responses  of  the  oracle,  if  we 
may  have  instead  some  natural  acres  of  Ionian 
earth? 

Though  we  know  well, — 


130  A   WEEK 

"  That 't  is  not  in  the  power  of  kings  [or  presidents]  to  raise 
A  spirit  for  verse  that  is  not  born  thereto, 
Nor  are  they  born  in  every  prince's  days ;  " 

yet  spite  of  all  they  sang  in  praise  of  their 
"Eliza's  reign,"  we  have  evidence  that  poets 
may  be  born  and  sing  in  our  day,  in  the  presi 
dency  of  James  K.  Polk, — 

"  And  that  the  utmost  powers  of  English  rhyme," 
Were  not  "  within  her  peaceful  reign  confined." 

The  prophecy  of  the  poet  Daniel  is  already  how 
much  more  than  fulfilled ! 

"  And  who  in  time  knows  whither  we  may  vent 
The  treasure  of  our  tongue  ?     To  what  strange  shores 
This  gain  of  our  best  glory  shall  be  sent, 
T'  enrich  unknowing  nations  with  our  stores  ? 
What  worlds  in  th'  yet  unformed  Occident, 
May  come  refined  with  the  accents  that  are  ours." 

Enough  has  been  said  in  these  days  of  the 
charm  of  fluent  writing.  We  hear  it  com 
plained  of  some  works  of  genius  that  they  have 
fine  thoughts,  but  are  irregular  and  have  no 
flow.  But  even  the  mountain  peaks  in  the  ho 
rizon  are,  to  the  eye  of  science,  parts  of  one 
range.  We  should  consider  that  the  flow  of 
thought  is  more  like  a  tidal  wave  than  a  prone 
river,  and  is  the  result  of  a  celestial  influence, 
not  of  any  declivity  in  its  channel.  The  river 
flows  because  it  runs  down  hill,  and  flows  the 
faster,  the  faster  it  descends.  The  reader  who 
expects  to  float  downstream  for  the  whole  voy- 


SUNDAY  131 

age  may  well  complain  of  nauseating  swells 
and  choppings  of  the  sea  when  his  frail  shore 
craft  gets  amidst  the  billows  of  the  ocean 
stream,  which  flows  as  much  to  sun  and  moon 
as  lesser  streams  to  it.  But  if  we  would  appre 
ciate  the  flow  that  is  in  these  books,  we  must 
expect  to  feel  it  rise  from  the  page  like  an  ex 
halation,  and  wash  away  our  critical  brains  like 
burr  millstones,  flowing  to  higher  levels  above 
and  behind  ourselves.  There  is  many  a  book 
which  ripples  on  like  a  freshet,  and  flows  as 
glibly  as  a  mill-stream  sucking  under  a  cause 
way  ;  and  when  their  authors  are  in  the  full  tide 
of  their  discourse,  Pythagoras  and  Plato  and 
Jamblichus  halt  beside  them.  Their  long, 
stringy,  slimy  sentences  are  of  that  consistency 
that  they  naturally  flow  and  run  together. 
They_read  asjl  written  for  military  men,  for 
men  of  business,  there  is  such  a  dispatch  in 
them.  Compared  with  these,  the  ^rave^think- 
_ers  and  phflnanphftrs  seem  not  to  have  got  their 
swaddling-clothes  off;  they  are  slower  than  a 
Koman  army  in  its  march,  the  rear  camping 
to-night  where  the  van  camped  last  night.  The 
wise  Jamblichus  eddies  and  gleams  like  a  watery 
slough. 

"  How  many  thousands  never  heard  the  name 
Of  Sidney,  or  of  Spenser,  or  their  books ! 
And  yet  brave  fellows,  and  presume  of  fame, 

And  seem  to  bear  down  all  the  world  with  looks! " 


132  A   WEEK 

The  ready  writer  seizes  the  pen  and  shouts 
"F^rward-l — Alamo  and  Fanning!"  and  after 
rolls  the  tide  of  war.  The  very  walls  and 
fences  seem  to  travel.  But  the  most  rapid  trot 
is  no  flow  after  all;  and  thither,  reader,  you 
and  I,  at  least,  will  not  follow. 

A  perfectly  healthy  sentence,  it  is  true,  is 
extremely  rare.  For  the  most  part  we  miss  the 
hue  and  fragrance  of  the  thought;  as  if  we 
could  be  satisfied  with  the  dews  of  the  morning 
or  evening  without  their  colors,  or  the  heavens 
without  their  azure.  The  most  attractive  sen 
tences  are,  perhaps,  not  the  wisest,  but  the 
surest  and  roundest.  They  are  spoken  firmly 
and  conclusively,  as  if  the  speaker  had  a  right 
to  know  what  he  says,  and  if  not  wise,  they 
have  at  least  been  well  learned.  Sir  Walter 
Kaleigh  might  well  be  studied,  if  only  for  the 
excellence  of  his  style,  for  he  is  remarkable  in 
the  midst  of  so  many  masters.  There  is  a 
natural  emphasis  in  his  style,  like  a  man's 
tread,  and  a  breathing  space  between  the  sen 
tences,  which  the  best  of  modern  writing  does 
not  furnish.  His  chapters  are  like  English 
parks,  or  say  rather  like  a  Western  forest, 
where  the  larger  growth  keeps  down  the  under 
wood,  and  one  may  ride  on  horseback  through 
the  openings.  All  the  distinguished  writers  of 
that  period  possess  a  greater  vigor  and  natural- 


SUNDAY  133 

ness  than  the  more  modern,  —  for  it  is  allowed 
to  slander  our  own  time,  —  and  when  we  read  a 
quotation  from  one  of  them  in"  the  midst  of  a 
modern  author,  we  seem  to  have  come  suddenly 
upon  a  greener  ground,  a  greater  depth  and 
strength  of  soil.  It  is  as  if  a  green  bough  were 
laid  across  the  page,  and  we  are  refreshed  as  by 
the  sight  of  fresh  grass  in  midwinter  or  early 
spring.  You  have  constantly  the  warrant  of 
life  and  experience  in  what  you  read.  The  lit- 
jtlgjthaj^  is  said  js^jeked  out  by  implication  of  the 
much  that  was  done.  The  sentences  are  ver 


durous  and  blooming  as  evergreen  and  flowers, 
because  they  are  rooted  in  fact  and  experience, 
but  our  false  and  florid  sentences  have  only  the 
tints  of  flowers  without  their  sap  or  roots.  A1J. 
men  are  really  most  attracted  by  the  beauty  of 
plain  speech,  and  they  even  write,  in  a  florid 

style  in^imitation--  xdt _  thi s. Ihey_:preier  _to  be 

misunderstood  rather__than  to  come  short  of  its 
jexuberancfi..  Hussein  Effendi  praised  the  epis 
tolary  style  of  Ibrahim  Pasha  to  the  French 
traveler  Botta,  because  of  "the  difficulty  of  un 
derstanding  it;  there  was,"  he  said,  "but  one 
person  at  Jidda  who  was  capable  of  understand 
ing  and  explaining  the  Pasha's  correspondence." 
A  man's  whole  life  is  taxed  for  the  least  thing 
well  done.  It  is  its  net  result.  Every  sen 
tence  is  the  result  of  a  long  probation.  Where 


134  A   WEEK 

shall  we  look  for  standard  English  but  to  the 
words  of  a  standard  man?  The  word  which  is 
best  said  came  nearest  to  not  being^gokenjit 
all,  for  it  is  cousin  jto  a  deed  which  the  speaker 
could  have  better  done.  ji§^,_^lmostit_must 
have  taken  the  place  of  a  deed  by  some  urgent 
necessity,  even  by  some  misfortune,  so  that  the 
truest  writer  will  be  some  captive  knight,  after 
"alT  35d^"perhaps~the  fates  had  such  a  design, 
when,  having  stored  Raleigh  so  richly  with  the 
substance  of  life  and  experience,  they  made 
him  a  fast  prisoner,  and  compelled  him  to  make 
his  words  his  deeds,  and  transfer  to  his  expres 
sion  the  emphasis  and  sincerity  of  his  action. 

Men  have  a  respect  for  scholarship  and  learn 
ing  greatly  out  of  proportion  to  the  use  they 
commonly  serve.  We  are  amused  to  read  how 
Ben  Jonson  engaged  that  the  dull  masks  with 
which  the  royal  family  and  nobility  were  to  be 
entertained  should  be  "grounded  upon  antiquity 
and  solid  learning."  Can  there  be  any  greater 
reproach  than  an  idle  learning?  Learn  to  split 
wood,  at  least.  JThe  necessity  of  labor  and 
conversation  with  many  men  and  things,  to  the 
scholar  is  rarely  well  remembered ;  ..steady  labor 
with  the  hands,  whichjgngrosses  the  attention 
also?  is  unquestionably  the  best  method  of  re 
moving  palaver  and  sentimentality  out  of  one's 
style,,  both  of  speaking  and  writing.  If  he  has 


SUNDAY  135 

worked  hard  from  morning  till  night,  though 
he  may  have  grieved  that  he  could  not  be  watch 
ing  the  train  of  his  thoughts  during  that  time, 
yet  the  few  hasty  lines  which  at  evening  record 
his  day's  experience  will  be  more  musical  and 
true  than  his  freest  but  idle  fancy  could  have 
furnished.  Surely  the  writer  isjto  address  a 
world  of  laborersTand  such  therefore  must  be 
his  own  discipline.  He  will  not  idly  dance  at 
his  work  who  has  wood  to  cut  and  cord  before 
nightfall  in  the  short  days  of  winter ;  but  every 
stroke  will  be  husbanded,  and  ring  soberly 
through  the  wood;  and  so  will  the  strokes  of 
that  scholar's  pen,  which  at  evening  record  the 
story  of  the  day,  ring  soberly,  yet  cheerily,  on 
the  ear  of  the  reader,  long  after  the  echoes  of 
his  axe  have  died  away.  The  scholar  may  be 
sure  that  he  writes  the  tougher  truth  for  the 
calluses  on  his  palms.  They  give  firmness  to 
the  sentence.  Indeed,  the  mind  never  makes 
a  great  and  successful  effort,  without  a  corre- 
spondTng  energy  of  the  body.  We  are  often 
struck  by  the  force  and  precision  of  style  to 
which  hard-working  men,  unpracticed  in  writ 
ing,  easily  attain  when  required  to  make  the 

effort.  ^4§_lL£l?iEBe^_an<^  vigor  an(l  sincer 
ity,  the  ornaments  of  style,  were  better  learned 
on  the  farm  and  in  the  workshop  than  in  the 
schools.  The  sentences  written  by  such  rude 


136  A   WEEK 

hands  are  nervous  and  tough,  like  hardened 
thongs,  the  sinews  of  the  deer,  or  the  roots  of 
the  pine.  As  for  the  graces  of  expression,  a 
great  thought  is  never  found  in  a  mean  dress; 
but  though  it  proceed  from  the  lips  of  the  Wo- 
lofs,  the  nine  Muses  and  the  three  Graces  will 
have  conspired  to  clothe  it  in  fit  phrase.  Its 
education  has  always  been  liberal,  and  its  im 
plied  wit  can  endow  a  college.  The  world, 
which  the  Greeks  called  Beauty,  has  been  made 
such  by  being  gradually  divested  of  every  orna 
ment  which  was  not  fitted  to  endure.  The 
Sibyl,  "speaking  with  inspired  mouth,  smileless, 
inornate,  and  unperfumed,  pierces  through  cen 
turies  by  the  power  of  the  god."  The  scholar 
might  frequently  emulate  the  propriety  and 
emphasis  of  the  farmer's  call  to  his  team,  and 
confess  that  if  that  were  written  it  would  sur 
pass  his  labored  sentences.  Whose  are  the 
truly  labored  sentences?  From  the  weak  and 
flimsy  periods  of  the  politician  and  literary 
man,  we  are  glad  to  turn  even  to  the  description 
of  work,  the  simple  record  of  the  month's  labor 
in  the  farmer's  almanac,  to  restore  our  tone  and 
spirits.  A  sentence  should  read  as  if  its  au 
thor,  had  he  held  a  plough  instead  of  a  pen, 
could  have  drawn  a  furrow  deep  and  straight 
to  the  end.  The  scholar  requires  hard  and 
serious  labor  to  give  an  impetus  to  his  thought* 


SUNDAY  137 

He  will  learn  to  grasp  the  pen  firmly  so,  and 
wield  it  gracefully  and  effectively,  as  an  axe 
or  a  sword.  When  we  consider  the  weak  and 
nerveless  periods  of  some  literary  men,  who 
perchance  in  feet  and  inches  come  up  to  the 
standard  of  their  race,  and  are  not  deficient  in 
girth  also,  we  are  amazed  at  the  immense  sacri 
fice  of  thews  and  sinews.  What !  these  propor 
tions, —  these  bones, — and  this  their  work! 
Hands  which  could  have  felled  an  ox  have 
hewed  this  fragile  matter  which  would  not  have 
tasked  a  lady's  fingers !  Can  this  be  a  stalwart 
man's  work,  who  has  a  marrow  in  his  back  and 
a  tendon  Achilles  in  his  heel?  They  who  set 
tip  the  blocks  of  Stonehenge  did  somewhat,  if 
they  only  laid  out  their  strength  for  once,  and 
stretched  themselves. 

Yet,  after  all,  the  truly  efficient  laborer  will 
not  crowd  his  day  with  work,  but  will  saunter 
to  his  task,  surrounded  by  a  wide  halo  of  ease 
and  leisure,  and  then  do  but  what  he  loves  best. 
He  Is  anxious  only  about  the  fruitful  kernels 
of  time.  Though  the  hen  should  sit  all  day, 
she  could  lay  only  one  egg,  and,  besides,  would 
not  have  picked  up  materials  for  another.  Let 
a  man  take  time  enough  for  the  most  trivial 
deed,  though  it  be  but  the  paring  of  his  nails. 
The  buds  swell  imperceptibly,  without  hurry  or 
confusion,  as  if  the  short  spring  days  were  an 
eternity. 


138  A   WEEK 

Then  spend  an  age  in  whetting  thy  desire, 
Thou  need'st  not  hasten  if  thou  dost  standfast. 

Some  hours  seem  not  to  be  occasion  for  any 
deed,  but  for  resolves  to  draw  breath  in.  We 
do  not  directly  go  about  the  execution  of  the 
purpose  that  thrills  us,  but  shut  our  doors  be 
hind  us  and  ramble  with  prepared  mind,  as  if 
the  half  were  already  done.  Our  resolution  is 
taking  root  or  hold  on  the  earth  then,  as  seeds 
first  send  a  shoot  downward  which  is  fed  by 
their  own  albumen,  ere  they  send  one  upward 
to  the  light. 

There  is  a  sort  of  homely  truth  and  natural 
ness  in  some  books  which  is  very  rare  to  find, 
and  yet  looks  cheap  enough.  There  may  be 
nothing  lofty  in  the  sentiment,  or  fine  in  the 
expression,  but  it  is  careless  country  talk. 
Homeliness  is  almost  as  great  a  merit  in  a  book 
as  in  a  house,  if  the  reader  would  abide  there. 
It  is  next  to  beauty,  and  a  very  high  art.  Some 
have  this  merit  only.  The  scholar  is  not  apt  to 
make  his  most  familiar  experience  come  grace 
fully  to  the  aid  of  his  expression.  Very  few 
men  can  speak  of  Nature,  for  instance,  with  any 
truth.  They  overstep  her  modesty,  somehow  or 
other,  and  confer  no  favor.  They  do  not  speak 
a  good  word  for  her.  Most  cry  better  than 
they  speak,  and  you  can  get  more  nature  out 


SUNDAY  139 

of  them  by  pinching  than  by  addressing  them. 
The  surliness  with  which  the  woodchopper 
speaks  of  his  woods,  handling  them  as  indiffer 
ently  as  his  axe,  is  better  than  the  mealy- 
mouthed  enthusiasm  of  the  lover  of  nature. 
Better  that  the  primrose  by  the  river's  brim 
be  a  yellow  primrose,  and  nothing  more,  than 
that  it  be  something  less.  Aubrey  relates  of 
Thomas  Fuller  that  his  was  "a  very  working 
head,  insomuch  that,  walking  and  meditating 
before  dinner,  he  would  eat  up  a  penny  loaf, 
not  knowing  that  he  did  it.  His  natural  mem 
ory  was  very  great,  to  which  he  added  the  art 
of  memory.  He  would  repeat  to  you  forwards 
and  backwards  all  the  signs  from  Ludgate  to 
Charing  Cross."  He  says  of  Mr.  John  Hales, 
that  "he  loved  Canarie,"  and  was  buried  "un 
der  an  altar  monument  of  black  marble • 

with   a   too  long  epitaph;"   of   Edmund 

Halley,  that  he  "at  sixteen  could  make  a  dial, 
and  then,  he  said,  he  thought  himself  a  brave 
fellow; "  of  William  Holder,  who  wrote  a  book 
upon  his  curing  one  Popham  who  was  deaf  and 
dumb,  "he  was  beholding  to  no  author;  did 
only  consult  with  nature."  For  the  most  part, 
an  author  consults  only  with  all  who  have  writ 
ten  before  him  upon  a  subject,  and  his  book  is 
but  the  advice  of  so  many.  But  a  good  book 
will  never  have  been  forestalled,  but  the  topic 


140  A  WEEK 

itself  will  in  one  sense  be  new,  and  its  author, 
by  consulting  with  nature,  will  consult  not  only 
with  those  who  have  gone  before,  but  with  those 
who  may  come  after.  There  is  always  room 
and  occasion  enough  for  a  true  book  on  any 
subject;  as  there  is  room  for  more  light  the 
brightest  day,  and  more  rays  will  not  interfere 
with  the  first. 

We  thus  worked  our  way  up  this  river,  grad 
ually  adjusting  our  thoughts  to  novelties,  be 
holding  from  its  placid  bosom  a  new  nature  and 
new  works  of  men,  and,  as  it  were  with  increas 
ing  confidence,  finding  nature  still  habitable, 
genial,  and  propitious  to  us ;  not  following  any 
beaten  path,  but  the  windings  of  the  river,  as 
ever  the  nearest  way  for  us.  Fortunately  we 
had  no  business  in  this  country.  The  Concord 
had  rarely  been  a  river,  or  rivus,  but  barely 
fluvius,  or  between  Jluvius  and  lacus.  This 
Merrimack  was  neither  rivus  nor  fluvius  nor 
lacus,  but  rather  amnis  here,  a  gently  swelling 
and  stately  rolling  flood  approaching  the  sea. 
We  could  even  sympathize  with  its  buoyant 
tide,  going  to  seek  its  fortune  in  the  ocean,  and, 
anticipating  the  time  when  "being  received 
within  the  plain  of  its  freer  water,"  it  should 
"beat  the  shores  for  banks,"  — 

"  campoque  recepta 
Liberioris  aquse,  pro  ripis  litora  pulsant" 


SUNDAY  141 

At  length  we  doubled  a  low  shrubby  islet, 
called  Rabbit  Island,  subjected  alternately  to 
the  sun  and  to  the  waves,  as  desolate  as  if  it  lay 
some  leagues  within  the  icy  sea,  and  found  our* 
selves  in  a  narrower  part  of  the  river,  near  the 
sheds  and  yards  for  picking  the  stone  known 
as  the  Chelmsford  granite,  which  is  quarried 
in  Westford  and  the  neighboring  towns.  We 
passed  Wicasuck  Island,  which  contains  seventy 
acres  or  more,  on  our  right,  between  Chelmsford 
and  Tyngsborough.  This  was  a  favorite  resi 
dence  of  the  Indians.  According  to  the  History 
of  Dunstable,  "About  1663,  the  eldest  son  of 
Passaconaway  [Chief  of  the  Penacooks]  was 
thrown  into  jail  for  a  debt  of  £45,  due  to  John 
Tinker,  by  one  of  his  tribe,  and  which  he  had 
promised  verbally  should  be  paid.  To  relieve 
him  from  his  imprisonment,  his  brother  Wan- 
nalancet  and  others,  who  owned  Wicasuck 
Island,  sold  it  and  paid  the  debt."  It  was, 
however,  restored  to  the  Indians  by  the  General 
Court  in  1665.  After  the  departure  of  the  In 
dians  in  1683,  it  was  granted  to  Jonathan  Tyng 
in  payment  for  his  services  to  the  colony,  in 
maintaining  a  garrison  at  his  house.  Tyng's 
house  stood  not  far  from  Wicasuck  Falls. 
Gookin,  who,  in  his  Epistle  Dedicatory  to  Rob 
ert  Boyle,  apologizes  for  presenting  his  "matter 
clothed  in  a  wilderness  dress,"  says  that  on  the 


142  A   WEEK 

breaking  out  of  Philip's  war  in  1675,  there  were 
taken  up  by  the  Christian  Indians  and  the  Eng 
lish  in  Marlborough,  and  sent  to  Cambridge, 
seven  "Indians  belonging  to  Narragansett, 
Long  Island,  and  Pequod,  who  had  all  been  at 
work  about  seven  weeks  with  one  Mr.  Jonathan 
Tyng,  of  Dunstable,  upon  Merrimack  River; 
and,  hearing  of  the  war,  they  reckoned  with 
their  master,  and  getting  their  wages,  conveyed 
themselves  away  without  his  privity,  and,  being 
afraid,  marched  secretly  through  the  woods, 
designing  to  go  to  their  own  country."  How 
ever,  they  were  released  soon  after.  Such  were 
the  hired  men  in  those  days.  Tyng  was  the 
first  permanent  settler  of  Dunstable,  which 
then  embraced  what  is  now  Tyngsborough  and 
many  other  towns.  In  the  winter  of  1675,  in 
Philip's  war,  every  other  settler  left  the  town, 
but  "he,"  says  the  historian  of  Dunstable, 
"fortified  his  house;  and,  although  'obliged  to 
send  to  Boston  for  his  food, '  sat  himself  down 
in  the  midst  of  his  savage  enemies,  alone,  in  the 
wilderness,  to  defend  his  home.  Deeming  his 
position  an  important  one  for  the  defense  of  the 
frontiers,  in  February,  1676,  he  petitioned  the 
Colony  for  aid,"  humbly  showing,  as  his  peti 
tion  runs,  that,  as  he  lived  "in  the  uppermost 
house  on  Merrimac  river,  lying  open  to  ye 
enemy,  yet  being  so  seated  that  it  is,  as  it  were, 


SUNDAY  143 

a  watch-house  to  the  neighboring  towns,"  he 
could  render  important  service  to  his  country 
if  only  he  had  some  assistance,  "there  being," 
he  said,  "never  an  inhabitant  left  in  the  town 
but  myself."  Wherefore  he  requests  that  their 
"Honors  would  be  pleased  to  order  him  three 
or  four  men  to  help  garrison  his  said  house," 
which  they  did.  But  methinks  that  such  a  gar 
rison  would  be  weakened  by  the  addition  of  a 
man. 

"  Make  bandog  thy  scout  watch  to  bark  at  a  thief, 
Make  courage  for  life,  to  be  capitain  chief  ; 
Make  trap-door  thy  bulwark,  make  bell  to  begin, 
Make  gunstone  and  arrow  show  who  is  within." 

Thus  he  earned  the  title  of  first  permanent  set 
tler.  In  1694  a  law  was  passed  "that  every 
settler  who  deserted  a  town  for  fear  of  the  In 
dians  should  forfeit  all  his  rights  therein."  But 
now,  at  any  rate,  as  I  have  frequently  observed, 
a  man  may  desert  the  fertile  frontier  territories 
of  truth  and  justice,  which  are  the  State's  best 
lands,  for  fear  of  far  more  insignificant  foes, 
without  forfeiting  any  of  his  civil  rights  therein. 
Nay,  townships  are  granted  to  deserters,  and 
the  General  Court,  as  I  am  sometimes  inclined 
to  regard  it,  is  but  a  deserters'  camp  itself. 

As  we  rowed  along  near  the  shore  of  Wica- 
suck  Island,  which  was  then  covered  with 
wood,  in  order  to  avoid  the  current*  two  men> 


144  A   WEEK 

who  looked  as  if  they  had  just  run  out  of  Low 
ell,  where  they  had  been  waylaid  by  the  Sab 
bath,  meaning  to  go  to  Nashua,  and  who  now 
found  themselves  in  the  strange,  natural,  uncul 
tivated,  and  unsettled  part  of  the  globe  whicl 
intervenes,  full  of  walls  and  barriers,  a  rough 
and  uncivil  place  to  them,  seeing  our  boat  mov 
ing  so  smoothly  up  the  stream,  called  out  from 
the  high  bank  above  our  heads  to  know  if  we 
would  take  them  as  passengers,  as  if  this  were 
the  street  they  had  missed ;  that  they  might  sit 
and  chat  and  drive  away  the  time,  and  so  at  last 
find  themselves  in  Nashua.  This  smooth  way 
they  much  preferred.  But  our  boat  was  crowded 
with  necessary  furniture,  and  sunk  low  in  the 
water,  and  moreover  required  to  be  worked,  for 
even  it  did  not  progress  against  the  stream  with 
out  effort;  so  we  were  obliged  to  deny  them 
passage.  As  we  glided  away  with  even  sweeps, 
while  the  fates  scattered  oil  in  our  course,  the 
sun  now  sinking  behind  the  alders  on  the  dis 
tant  shore,  we  could  still  see  them  far  off  over 
the  water,  running  along  the  shore  and  climbing 
over  the  rocks  and  fallen  trees  like  insects,  — 
for  they  did  not  know  any  better  than  we  that 
they  were  on  an  island,  —  the  un sympathizing 
river  ever  flowing  in  an  opposite  direction; 
until,  having  reached  the  entrance  of  the  island 
brook,  which  they  had  probably  crossed  upon 


SUNDA  Y  145 

the  locks  below,  they  found  a  more  effectual 
barrier  to  their  progress.  They  seemed  to  be 
learning  much  in  a  little  time.  They  ran  about 
like  ants  on  a  burning  brand,  and  once  more  they 
tried  the  river  here,  and  once  more  there,  to  see 
if  water  still  indeed  was  not  to  be  walked  on, 
as  if  a  new  thought  inspired  them,  and  by  some 
peculiar  disposition  of  the  limbs  they  could 
accomplish  it.  At  length  sober  common  sense 
seemed  to  have  resumed  its  sway,  and  they  con 
cluded  that  what  they  had  so  long  heard  must 
be  true,  and  resolved  to  ford  the  shallower 
stream.  When  nearly  a  mile  distant  we  could 
see  them  stripping  off  their  clothes  and  prepar 
ing  for  this  experiment;  yet  it  seemed  likely 
that  a  new  dilemma  would  arise,  they  were  so 
thoughtlessly  throwing  away  their  clothes  on 
the  wrong  side  of  the  stream,  as  in  the  case 
of  the  countryman  with  his  corn,  his  fox,  and 
his  goose,  which  had  to  be  transported  one  at 
a  time.  Whether  they  got  safely  through,  or 
went  round  by  the  locks,  we  never  learned. 
We  CQuldjKiLbelp  being  struck  by  the  seeming, 
thougj^nocent  indifference^f  Nature  to  these 
fiasiiksj^^while  elsewhere  she  was 
equally  serving  others.  ^Like  a  true  benefac- 
t$ess,_the  secret  of  her  service  is  unchangeable- 
ness.  Thus  is  the  busiest  merchant,  thougET 
within  sight  of  his  Lowell,  put  to  pilgrim's 


146  A   WEEK 

shifts,  and  soon  comes  to  staff  and  scrip  and 
scallop  shell. 

We,  too,  who  held  the  middle  of  the  stream, 
came  near  experiencing  a  pilgrim's  fate,  being 
tempted  to  pursue  what  seemed  a  sturgeon  or 
larger  fish,  for  we  remembered  that  this  was  the 
Sturgeon  River,  its  dark  and  monstrous  back 
alternately  rising  and  sinking  in  midstream. 
We  kept  falling  behind,  but  the  fish  kept  his 
back  well  out,  and  did  not  dive,  and  seemed  to 
prefer  to  swim  against  the  stream,  so,  at  any 
rate,  he  would  not  escape  us  by  going  out  to 
sea.  At  length,  having  got  as  near  as  was  con 
venient,  and  looking  out  not  to  get  a  blow  from 
his  tail,  now  the  bow-gunner  delivered  his 
charge,  while  the  stern-man  held  his  ground. 
But  the  halibut-skinned  monster,  in  one  of  these 
swift-gliding  pregnant  moments,  without  ever 
ceasing  his  bobbing  up  and  down,  saw  fit,  with 
out  a  chuckle  or  other  prelude,  to  proclaim  him 
self  a  huge  imprisoned  spar,  placed  there  as  a 
buoy,  to  warn  sailors  of  sunken  rocks.  So, 
each  casting  some  blame  upon  the  other,  we 
withdrew  quickly  to  safer  waters. 

The  Scene-shifter  saw  fit  here  to  close  the 
drama  of  this  day  without  regard  to  any  unities 
which  we  mortals  prize.  Whether  it  might 
have  proved  tragedy,  or  comedy,  or  tragi-com- 
edy,  or  pastoral,  we  cannot  tell.  This  SundaJ 


SUNDAY  147 

ended  by  the  going  down  of  the  sun,  leaving  us 
still  on  the  waves.  But  they  who  are  on  the 
water  enjoy  a  longer  and  brighter  twilight  than 
they  who  are  on  the  land,  for  here  the  water,  as 
well  as  the  atmosphere,  absorbs  and  reflects  the 
light,  and  some  of  the  day  seems  to  have  sunk 
down  into  the  waves.  The  light  gradually  for 
sook  the  deep  water,  as  well  as  the  deeper  air, 
and  the  gloaming  came  to  the  fishes  as  well  as 
to  us,  and  more  dim  and  gloomy  to  them,  whose 
day  is  a  perpetual  twilight,  though  sufficiently 
bright  for  their  weak  and  watery  eyes.  Vespers 
had  already  rung  in  many  a  dim  and  watery 
chapel  down  below,  where  the  shadows  of  the 
weeds  were  extended  in  length  over  the  sandy 
floor.  The  vespertinal  pout  had  already  begun 
to  flit  on  leathern  fin,  and  the  finny  gossips 
withdrew  from  the  fluvial  street  to  creeks  and 
coves,  and  other  private  haunts,  excepting  a  few 
of  stronger  fin,  which  anchored  in  the  stream, 
stemming  the  tide  even  in  their  dreams.  Mean 
while,  like  a  dark  evening  cloud,  we  were 
wafted  over  the  cope  of  their  sky,  deepening  the 
shadows  on  their  deluged  fields. 

Having  reached  a  retired  part  of  the  river 
where  it  spread  out  to  sixty  rods  in  width,  we 
pitched  our  tent  on  the  east  side,  in  Tyngsbor- 
ough,  just  above  some  patches  of  the  beach 
plum,  which  was  now  nearly  ripe,  where  the 


148  A   WEEK 

sloping  bank  was  a  sufficient  pillow,  and  with 
the  bustle  of  sailors  making  the  land,  we  trans 
ferred  such  stores  as  were  required  from  boat  to 
tent,  and  hung  a  lantern  to  the  tent-pole,  and 
so  our  house  was  ready.  With  a  buffalo  spread 
on  the  grass,  and  a  blanket  for  our  covering, 
our  bed  was  soon  made.  A  fire  crackled  mer 
rily  before  the  entrance,  so  near  that  we  could 
tend  it  without  stepping  abroad,  and  when  we 
had  supped,  we  put  out  the  blaze,  and  closed 
the  door,  and  with  the  semblance  of  domestic 
comfort,  sat  up  to  read  the  Gazetteer,  to  learn 
our  latitude  and  longitude,  and  write  the  journal 
of  the  voyage,  or  listened  to  the  wind  and  the 
rippling  of  the  river  till  sleep  overtook  us. 
There  we  lay  under  an  oak  on  the  bank  of  the 
stream,  near  to  some  farmer's  cornfield,  getting 
sleep,  and  forgetting  where  we  were;  a  great 
blessing,  that  we  are  obliged  to  forget  our  en 
terprises  every  twelve  hours.  Minks,  muskrats, 
meadow-mice,  woodchucks,  squirrels,  skunks, 
rabbits,  foxes,  and  weasels,  all  inhabit  near, 
but  keep  very  close  while  you  are  there.  The 
river  sucking  and  eddying  away  all  night  down 
toward  the  marts  and  the  seaboard,  a  great  wash 
and  freshet,  and  no  small  enterprise  to  reflect 
on.  Instead  of  the  Scythian  vastness  of  the 
Billerica  night,  and  its  wild  musical  sounds,  we 
were  kept  awake  by  the  boisterous  sport  of  some 


SUNDAY  149 

Irish  laborers  on  the  railroad,  wafted  to  us  over 
the  water,  still  unwearied  and  unresting  on  this 
seventh  day,  who  would  not  have  done  with 
whirling  up  and  down  the  track  with  ever-in 
creasing  velocity  and  still  reviving  shouts,  till 
late  in  the  night. 

One  sailor  was  visited  in  his  dreams  this  night 
by  the  Evil  Destinies,  and  all  those  powers  that 
are  hostile  to  human  life,  which  constrain  and 
oppress  the  minds  of  men,  and  make  their  path 
seem  difficult  and  narrow,  and  beset  with  dan 
gers,  so  that  the  most  innocent  and  worthy  en 
terprises  appear  insolent  and  a  tempting  of  fate, 
and  the  gods  go  not  with  us.  But  the  other 
happily  passed  a  serene  and  even  ambrosial  or 
immortal  night,  and  his  sleep  was  dreamless,  or 
only  the  atmosphere  of  pleasant  dreams  re 
mained,  a  happy,  natural  sleep  until  the  morn 
ing;  and  his  cheerful  spirit  soothed  and  reas 
sured  his  brother,  for  whenever  they  meet,  the 
Good  Genius  is  sure  to  prevail. 


MONDAY. 

**  I  thynke  for  to  touche  also 
The  worlde  whiche  neweth  ererie  daie, 
So  as  I  can,  BO  as  I  male." 

GOWEB. 

"  The  hye  sheryfe  of  Notynghame, 
Hym  holde  in  your  mynde." 

Robin  Hood  Ballads. 

"  His  shoote  it  was  but  loosely  shott, 

Yet  flewe  not  the  arrowe  in  vaine, 

For  it  mett  one  of  the  sheriffe's  men, 

And  William  a  Trent  was  slaine." 

Robin  Hood  Ballads. 

"  Gazed  on  the  Heavens  for  what  he  missed  on  Earth." 

Britannia's  Pastorals. 

WHEN  the  first  light  dawned  on  the  earth, 
and  the  birds  awoke,  and  the  brave  river  was 
heard  rippling  confidently  seaward,  and  the 
nimble  early  rising  wind  rustled  the  oak  leaves 
about  our  tent,  all  men,  having  reinforced  their 
bodies  and  their  souls  with  sleep,  and  cast  aside 
doubt  and  fear,  were  invited  to  unattempted 
adventures. 

"  All  courageous  knichtis 
Agains  the  day  dichtis 
The  breest-plate  that  bricht  is, 
To  f  eght  with  their  foue. 


152  A   WEEK 

The  stoned  steed  stampis 
Throw  curage  and  crampis, 
Syne  on  the  land  lampis ; 

The  night  is  neir  gone." 

One  of  us  took  the  boat  over  to  the  opposite 
shore,  which  was  flat  and  accessible,  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  distant,  to  empty  it  of  water  and  wash 
out  the  clay,  while  the  other  kindled  a  fire  and 
got  breakfast  ready.  At  an  early  hour  we  were 
again  on  our  way,  rowing  through  the  fog  as 
before,  the  river  already  awake,  and  a  million 
crisped  waves  come  forth  to  meet  the  sun  when 
he  should  show  himself.  The  countrymen,  re 
cruited  by  their  day  of  rest,  were  already  stir 
ring,  and  had  begun  to  cross  the  ferry  on  the 
business  of  the  week.  This  ferry  was  as  busy 
as  a  beaver  dam,  and  all  the  world  seemed  anx 
ious  to  get  across  the  Merrimack  River  at  this 
particular  point,  waiting  to  get  set  over,  —  chil 
dren  with  their  two  cents  done  up  in  paper,  jail 
birds  broke  loose  and  constable  with  warrant, 
travelers  from  distant  lands  to  distant  lands, 
men  and  women  to  whom  the  Merrimack  River 
was  a  bar.  There  stands  a  gig  in  the  gray 
morning,  in  the  mist,  the  impatient  traveler 
pacing  the  wet  shore  with  whip  in  hand,  and 
shouting  through  the  fog  after  the  regardless 
Charon  and  his  retreating  ark,  as  if  he  might 
throw  that  passenger  overboard  and  return 


MONDAY  153 

forthwith  for  himself;  he  will  compensate  him. 
He  is  to  break  his  fast  at  some  unseen  place  on 
the  opposite  side.  It  may  be  Ledyard,  or  the 
Wandering  Jew.  Whence,  pray,  did  he  come 
out  of  the  foggy  night?  and  whither  through 
the  sunny  day  will  he  go?  We  observe  only 
his  transit ;  important  to  us,  forgotten  by  him, 
transiting  all  day.  There  are  two  of  them. 
May  be,  they  are  Virgil  and  Dante.  But  when 
they  crossed  the  Styx,  none  were  seen  bound  up 
or  down  the  stream,  that  I  remember.  It  is 
only  a  transjectus,  a  transitory  voyage,  like  life 
itself,  none  but  the  long-lived  gods  bound  up  or 
down  the  stream.  Many  of  these  Monday  men 
are  ministers,  no  doubt,  reseeking  their  parishes 
with  hired  horses,  with  sermons  in  their  valises 
all  read  and  gutted,  the  day  after  never  with 
them.  They  cross  each  other's  routes  all  the 
country  over  like  woof  and  warp,  making  a  gar 
ment  of  loose  texture;  vacation  now  for  six 
days.  They  stop  to  pick  nuts  and  berries,  and 
gather  apples,  by  the  wayside  at  their  leisure. 
Good  religious  men,  with  the  love  of  men  in 
their  hearts,  and  the  means  to  pay  their  toll  in 
their  pockets.  We  got  over  this  ferry  chain 
without  scraping,  rowing  athwart  the  tide  of 
travel,  —  no  toll  for  us  that  day. 

The  fog  dispersed,   and  we  rowed  leisurely 
along  through  Tyngsborough,  with  a  clear  sky 


154  A   WEEK 

and  a  mild  atmosphere,  leaving  the  habitations 
of  men  behind,  and  penetrating  yet  farther 
into  the  territory  of  ancient  Dunstable.  It  was 
from  Dunstable,  then  a  frontier  town,  that  the 
famous  Captain  Lovewell,  with  his  company, 
marched  in  quest  of  the  Indians  on  the  18th  of 
April,  1725.  He  was  the  son  of  "an  ensign  in 
the  army  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  who  came  to  this 
country,  and  settled  at  Dunstable,  where  he 
died  at  the  great  age  of  one  hundred  and  twenty 
years."  In  the  words  of  the  old  nursery  tale, 
sung  about  a  hundred  years  ago,  — 

"  He  and  his  valiant  soldiers  did  range  the  woods  full  wide, 
And  hardships  they  endured  to  quell  the  Indian's  pride." 

In  the  shaggy  pine  forest  of  Pequawket  they 
met  the  "rebel  Indians,"  and  prevailed,  after  a 
bloody  fight,  and  a  remnant  returned  home  to 
enjoy  the  fame  of  their  victory.  A  township 
called  Lovewell's  Town,  but  now,  for  some 
reason,  or  perhaps  without  reason,  Pembroke, 
was  granted  them  by  the  State. 

"  Of  all  our  valiant  English,  there  were  but  thirty-four, 
And  of  the  rebel  Indians,  there  were  about  four-score  ; 
And  sixteen  of  our  English  did  safely  home  return, 
The  rest  were  killed  and  wounded,  for  which  we  all  must 
mourn. 

"Our  worthy  Capt.  Lovewell  among  them  there  did  die, 
They  killed  Lieut.  Robbins,  and  wounded  good  young  Frye, 
Who  was  our  English  Chaplin ;  he  many  Indians  slew, 
And  some   of  them   he   scalped  while   bullets  round  him 
flew." 


MONDA  Y  155 

Our  brave  forefathers  have  exterminated  all 
the  Indians,  and  their  degenerate  children  no 
longer  dwell  in  garrisoned  houses  nor  hear  any 
war-whoop  in  their  path.  It  would  be  well, 
perchance,  if  many  an  "English  Chaplin  "in 
these  days  could  exhibit  as  unquestionable 
trophies  of  his  valor  as  did  "good  young  Frye." 
We  have  need  to  be  as  sturdy  pioneers  still  as 
Miles  Standish,  or  Church,  or  Lovewell.  We 
are  to  follow  on  another  trail,  it  is  true,  but 
one  as  convenient  for  ambushes.  WhaiJLLihe 
Jhidiajis_aTe__€«to^  not^savages  as 

grim  prowling jibout  the  clearings  tp-daty.  ?  — 

"  And  braving  many  dangers  and  hardships  in  the  way, 
They  safe  arrived  at  Dunstable  the  thirteenth  (?)   day  dl 
May." 

But  they  did  not  all  "  safe  arrive  in  Dunstable 
the  thirteenth,"  or  the  fifteenth,  or  the  thirtieth 
"day  of  May."  Eleazer  Davis  and  Josiah 
Jones,  both  of  Concord,  for  our  native  town  had 
seven  men  in  this  fight,  Lieutenant  Farwell,  of 
Dunstable,  and  Jonathan  Frye,  of  Andover, 
who  were  all  wounded,  were  left  behind,  creep 
ing  toward  the  settlements.  "After  traveling 
several  miles,  Frye  was  left  and  lost,"  though 
a  more  recent  poet  has  assigned  him  company 
in  his  last  hours. 

"  A  man  he  was  of  comely  form, 

Polished  and  brave,  well  learned  and  kind  ; 
Old  Harvard's  learned  halls  he  left 
Far  in  the  wilds  a  grave  to  find. 


156  A   WEEK 

"  Ah !  now  his  blood-red  arm  he  lifts ; 

His  closing  lids  he  tries  to  raise ; 
And  speak  once  more  before  he  dies, 
In  supplication  and  in  praise. 

u  He  prays  kind  Heaven  to  grant  success, 

Brave  Love  well's  men  to  guide  and  bless, 
And  when  they  've  shed  their  heart-blood  true, 
To  raise  them  all  to  happiness. 

"  Lieutenant  Farwell  took  his  hand, 

His  arm  around  his  neck  he  threw, 
And  said,  '  Brave  Chaplain,  I  could  wish 
That  Heaven  had  made  me  die  for  you.'  " 


Farwell  held  out  eleven  days.  "A  tradition 
says,"  as  we  learn  from  the  History  of  Concord, 
"that  arriving  at  a  pond  with  Lieut.  Farwell, 
Davis  pulled  off  one  of  his  moccasins,  cut  it  in 
strings,  on  which  he  fastened  a  hook,  caught 
some  fish,  fried  and  ate  them.  They  refreshed 
him,  but  were  injurious  to  Farwell,  who  died 
soon  after."  Davis  had  a  ball  lodged  in  his 
body,  and  his  right  hand  shot  off;  but  on  the 
whole,  he  seems  to  have  been  less  damaged 
than  his  companions.  He  came  into  Berwick 
after  being  out  fourteen  days.  Jones  also  had 
a  ball  lodged  in  his  body,  but  he  likewise  got 
into  Saco  after  fourteen  days,  though  not  in  the 
best  condition  imaginable.  "  He  had  subsisted, " 
says  an  old  journal,  "on  the  spontaneous  vege 
tables  of  the  forest;  and  cranberries  which  he 


MONDAY  157 

had  eaten  came  out  of  wounds  lie  had  received 
in  his  body."  This  was  a*80  tne  case  w*tn 
Davis.  The  last  two  reached  home  at  length, 
safe  if  not  sound,  and  lived  many  years  in  a 
crippled  state  to  enjoy  their  pension. 

But  alas !  of  the  crippled  Indians,  and  their 
adventures  in  the  woods,  — 

"  For  as  we  are  informed,  so  thick  and  fast  they  fell, 
Scarce  twenty  of  their   number  at  night  did  get  home 
well,"  — 

how  many  balls  lodged  with  them,  how  fared 
their  cranberries,  what  Berwick  or  Saco  they 
got  into,  and  finally  what  pension  or  township 
was  granted  them,  there  is  no  journal  to  tell. 

It  is  stated  in  the  History  of  Dunstable  that 
just  before  his  last  march,  Lovewell  was  warned 
to  beware  of  the  ambuscades  of  the  enemy,  but 
"he  replied,  'that  he  did  not  care  for  them,' 
and  bending  down  a  small  elm  beside  which 
he  was  standing  into  a  bow,  declared  'that 
he  would  treat  the  Indians  in  the  same  way.' 
This  elm  is  still  standing  [in  Nashua],  a  vener 
able  and  magnificent  tree." 

Meanwhile,  having  passed  the  Horseshoe  In 
terval  in  Tyngsborough,  where  the  river  makes 
a  sudden  bend  to  the  northwest,  —  for  our  re 
flections  have  anticipated  our  progress  some 
what,  —  we  were  advancing  farther  into  the 


158  A  WEEK 

country  and  into  the  day,  which  last  proved 
almost  as  golden  as  the  preceding,  though  the 
slight  bustle  and  activity  of  the  Monday  seemed 
to  penetrate  even  to  this  scenery.  Now  and 
then  we  had  to  muster  all  our  energy  to  get 
round  a  point,  where  the  river  broke  rippling 
over  rocks,  and  the  maples  trailed  their  branches 
in  the  stream,  but  there  was  generally  a  back 
water  or  eddy  on  the  side,  of  which  we  took  ad 
vantage.  The  river  was  here  about  forty  rods 
wide  and  fifteen  feet  deep.  Occasionally  one 
ran  along  the  shore,  examining  the  country,  and 
visiting  the  nearest  farm-houses,  while  the  other 
followed  the  windings  of  the  stream  alone,  to 
meet  his  companion  at  some  distant  point,  and 
hear  the  report  of  his  adventures;  how  the 
farmer  praised  the  coolness  of  his  well,  and  his 
wife  offered  the  stranger  a  draught  of  milk,  or 
the  children  quarreled  for  the  only  transparency 
in  the  window  that  they  might  get  sight  of  the 
man  at  the  well.  For  though  the  country 
seemed  so  new,  and  no  house  was  observed  by  us, 
shut  in  between  the  banks  that  sunny  day,  we 
did  not  have  to  travel  far  to  find  where  men 
inhabited,  like  wild  bees,  and  had  sunk  wells 
in  the  loose  sand  and  loam  of  the  Merrimack. 
There  dwelt  the  subject  of  the  Hebrew  scrip 
tures,  and  the  Esprit  des  Lois,  where  a  thin, 
vaporous  smoke  curled  up  through  the  noon. 


MONDAY  159 

All  that  is  told  of  mankind,  of  the  inhabitants 
of  the  Upper  Nile,  and  the  Sunderbunds,  and 
Timbuctoo,  and  the  Orinoko,  was  experience 
here.  Every  race  and  class  of  men  was  repre 
sented.  According  to  Belknap,  the  historian  of 
New  Hampshire,  who  wrote  sixty  years  ago, 
>here  too,  perchance,  dwelt  "new  lights"  and 
free -thinking  men,  even  then.  "The  people  in 
general  throughout  the  State,"  it  is  written, 
"are  professors  of  the  Christian  religion  in  some 
form  or  other.  There  is,  however,  a  sort  of 
wise  men  who  pretend  to  reject  it;  but  they 
have  not  yet  been  able  to  substitute  a  better  in 
its  place." 

The  other  voyageur,  perhaps,  would  in  the 
mean  while  have  seen  a  brown  hawk,  or  a  wood- 
chuck,  or  a  musquash  creeping  under  the  alders. 

We  occasionally  rested  in  the  shade  of  a 
maple  or  a  willow,  and  drew  forth  a  melon  for 
our  refreshment,  while  we  contemplated  at  our 
leisure  the  lapse  of  the  river  and  of  human  life ; 
and  as  that  current,  with  its  floating  twigs  and 
leaves,  so  did  all  things  pass  in  review  before 
us,  while  far  away  in  cities  and  marts  on  this 
very  stream,  the  old  routine  was  proceeding 
still.  There  is,  indeed,  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of 
men,  as  the  poet  says,  and  yet  as  things  flow 
they  circulate,  and  the  ebb  always  balances  the 
flow.  All  streams  are  but  tributary  to  the 


160  A  WEEK 

ocean,  which  itself  does  not  stream,  and  the 
shores  are  unchanged,  but  in  longer  periods 
than  man  can  measure.  Go  where  we  will,  we 
discover  infinite  change  in  particulars  only,  not 
in  generals.  When  I  go  into  a  museum  and  see 
the  mummies  wrapped  in  their  linen  bandages, 
I  see  that  the  lives  of  men  began  to  need  reform 
as  long  ago  as  when  they  walked  the  earth.  I 
come  out  into  the  streets,  and  meet  men  who 
declare  that  the  time  is  near  at  hand  for  the 
redemption  of  the  race.  But  as  men  lived  in 
Thebes,  so  do  they  live  in  Dunstable  to-day. 
"Time  drinketh  up  the  essence  of  every  great 
and  noble  action  which  ought  to  be  performed, 
and  is  delayed  in  the  execution."  So  says 
Veeshnoo  Sarma;  and  we  perceive  that  the 
schemers  return  again  and  again  to  common 
sense  and  labor.  Such  is  the  evidence  of  his 
tory. 

"  Yet  I  doubt  not  through  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose 

runs, 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widened  with  the  process  of 
the  Suns." 

There  are  secret  articles  in  our  treaties  with  the 
gods,  of  more  importance  than  all  the  rest, 
which  the  historian  can  never  know. 

There  are  many  skillful  apprentices,  but  few 
master  workmen.  On  every  hand  we  observe  a 
truly  wise  practice,  in  education,  in  morals,  and 


MONDAY  161 

in  the  arts  of  life,  the  embodied  wisdom  of 
many  an  ancient  philosopher.  Who  does  not 
see  that  heresies  have  some  time  prevailed,  that 
reforms  have  already  taken  place?  All  this 
worldly  wisdom  might  be  regarded  as  the  once 
unamiable  heresy  of  some  wise  man.  Some  in 
terests  have  got  a  footing  on  the  earth  which 
we  have  not  made  sufficient  allowance  for. 
Even  they  who  first  built  these  barns  and  cleared 
the  land  thus,  had  some  valor.  The  abrupt 
epochs  and  chasms  are  smoothed  down  in  his 
tory  as  the  inequalities  of  the  plain  are  con 
cealed  by  distance.  But  unless  we  do  more 
than  simply  learn  the  trade  of  our  time,  we  are 
but  apprentices,  and  not  yet  masters  of  the  art 
of  life. 

Now  that  we  are  casting  away  these  melon 
seeds,  how  can  we  help  feeling  reproach?  He 
who  eats  the  fruit  should  at  least  plant  the 
seed;  ay,  if  possible,  a  better  seed  than  that 
whose  fruit  he  has  enjoyed.  Seeds,  there  are 
seeds  enough  which  need  only  be  stirred  in  with 
the  soil  where  they  lie,  by  an  inspired  voice  or 
pen,  to  bear  fruit  of  a  divine  flavor.  O  thou 
spendthrift!  Defray  thy  debt  to  the  world; 
eat  not  the  seed  of  institutions,  as  the  luxurious 
do,  but  plant  it  rather,  while  thou  devourest  the 
pulp  and  tuber  for  thy  subsistence;  that  so, 
perchance,  one  variety  may  at  last  be  found 
worthy  of  preservation. 


162  A  WEEK 

There  are  moments  when  all  anxiety  and 
stated  toil  are  becalmed  in  the  infinite  leisure 
and  repose  of  nature.  All  laborers  must  have 
their  nooning,  and  at  this  season  of  the  day,  we 
are  all,  more  or  less,  Asiatics,  and  give  over  all 
work  and  reform.  While  lying  thus  on  our 
oars  by  the  side  of  the  stream,  in  the  heat  of 
the  day,  our  boat  held  by  an  osier  put  through 
the  staple  in  its  prow,  and  slicing  the  melons, 
which  are  a  fruit  of  the  East,  our  thoughts  re 
verted  to  Arabia,  Persia,  and  Hindostan,  the 
lands  of  contemplation  and  dwelling-places  of 
the  ruminant  nations.  In  the  experience  of 
this  noontide  we  could  find  some  apology  even 
for  the  instinct  of  the  opium,  betel,  and  tobacco 
chewers.  Mount  Saber,  according  to  the 
French  traveler  and  naturalist,  Botta,  is  cele 
brated  for  producing  the  Kat-tree,  of  which 
"the  soft  tops  of  the  twigs  and  tender  leaves 
are  eaten,"  says  his  reviewer,  "and  produce  an 
agreeable  soothing  excitement,  restoring  from 
fatigue,  banishing  sleep,  and  disposing  to  the 
enjoyment  of  conversation."  We  thought  that 
we  might  lead  a  dignified  Oriental  life  along 
this  stream  as  well,  and  the  maple  and  alders 
would  be  our  Kat-trees. 

ft.-i*  -a  -great^pleasure  ta  escape  sometimes 
.from  thft^restless  class  of  Reformers.  What 
if  these  grievances  exist?  So  do  you  and  I. 


MONDAY  163 

Think  you  that  sitting  hens  are  troubled  with 
ennui  these  long  summer  days,  sitting  on  and 
on  in  the  crevice  of  a  hay -loft,  without  active 
employment?  By  the  faint  cackling  in  distant 
barns,  I  judge  that  dame  Nature  is  interested 
still  to  know  how  many  eggs  her  hens  lay.  The 
Universal  Soul,  as  it  is  called,  has  an  interest 
in  the  stacking  of  hay,  the  foddering  of  cattle, 
and  the  draining  of  peat-meadows.  Away  in 
Scythia,  away  in  India,  it  makes  butter  and 
cheese.  Suppose  that  all  farms  are  run  out, 
and  we  youths  must  buy  old  land  and  bring  it 
to,  still  everywhere  the  relentless  opponents  of 
reform  bear  a  strange  resemblance  to  ourselves ; 
or,  perchance,  they  are  a  few  old  maids  and 
bachelors,  who  sit  round  the  kitchen  hearth  and 
listen  to  the  singing  of  the  kettle.  "The  ora 
cles  often  give  victory  to  our  choice,  and  not  to 
the  order  alone  of  the  mundane  periods.  As, 
for  instance,  when  they  say  that  our  voluntary 
sorrows  germinate  in  us  as  the  growth  of  the 
particular  life  we  lead."  The  reform  which 
you  talk  about  can  be  undertaken  any  morning 
before  unbarring  our  doors.  We  need  not  call 
any  convention.  When  two  neighbors  begin  to 
eat  corn  bread,  who  before  ate  wheat,  then  the 
gods  smile  from  ear  to  ear,  for  it  is  very  pleas 
ant  to  them.  Why  do  you  not  try  it?  Don't 
let  me  hinder  you. 


164  A   WEEK 

There  are  theoretical  reformers  at  all  times, 
and  all  the  world  over,  living  on  anticipation. 
Wolff,  traveling  in  the  deserts  of  Bokhara, 
says,  "Another  party  of  derveeshes  came  to  me 
J  and  observed,  '  The  time  will  come  when  there 
shall  be  no  difference  between  rich  and  poor, 
between  high  and  low,  when  property  will  be 
in  common,  even  wives  and  children. ' "  But 
forever  I  ask  of  such,  What  then?  The  der 
veeshes  in  the  deserts  of  Bokhara  and  the  re 
formers  in  Marlboro'  Chapel  sing  the  same 
song.  "There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys," 
but,  asked  one  of  the  audience,  in  good  faith, 
"Can  you  fix  the  date?"  Said  I,  "  Will  you 
help  it  along?" 

The  nonchalance  and  dolce-far-niente  air  of 
nature  and  society  hint  at  infinite  periods  in  the 
progress  of  mankind.  The  States  have  leisure 
to  laugh  from  Maine  to  Texas  at  some  news 
paper  joke,  and  New  England  shakes  at  the 
double  -  entendres  of  Australian  circles,  while 
the  poor  reformer  cannot  get  a  hearing. 

Men  do  not  fail  commonly  for  want  of  know 
ledge,  but  for  want  of  prudence  to  give  wisdom 
the  preference.  What  we  need  to  know  in  any 
case  is  very  simple.  It  is  but  too  easy  to  es 
tablish  another  durable  and  harmonious  routine. 
Immediately  all  parts  of  nature  consent  to  it. 
Only  make  something  to  take  the  place  of  some- 


MONDAY  165 

thing,  and  men  will  behave  as  if  it  was  the 
very  thing  they  wanted.  They  must  behave, 
at  any  rate,  and  will  work  up  any  material. 
There  is  always  a  present  and  extant  life,  be  it 
better  or  worse,  which  all  combine  to  uphold. 
We  should  be  slow  to  mend,  my  friends,  as 
slow  to  require  mending,  "Not  hurling,  accord 
ing  to  the  oracle,  a  transcendent  foot  towards 
piety."  The  language  of  excitement  is  at  best 
picturesque  merely.  You  must  be  calm  before 
you  can  utter  oracles.  What  was  the  excite 
ment  of  the  Delphic  priestess  compared  with 
the  calm  wisdom  of  Socrates?  —  or  whoever  it 
was  that  was  wise.  Enthusiasm  is  a  supernat 
ural  serenity. 

"  Men  find  that  action  is  another  thing 

Than  what  they  in  discoursing-  papers  read ; 
The  world's  affairs  require  in  managing 

More  arts  than  those  wherein  you  clerks  proceed." 

As  in  geology,  so  in  social  institutions,  we  may 
discover  the  causes  of  all  past  change  in  the 
present  invariable  order  of  society.  The  great 
est  appreciable  physical  revolutions  are  the 
work  of  the  light-footed  air,  the  stealthy -paced 
water,  and  the  subterranean  fire.  Aristotle 
said,  "As  time  never  fails,  and  the  universe  is 
eternal,  neither  the  Tanais  nor  the  Nile  can 
have  flowed  forever."  We  are  independent  of 
the  change  we  detect.  The  longer  the  lever,  the 


166  A  WEEK 

less  perceptible  its  motion.  It  is  the  slowest 
pulsation  which  is  the  most  vital.  The  hero 
then  will  know  how  to  wait,  as  well  as  to  make 
haste.  All  good  abides  with  him  who  waiteth 
wisely ;  we  shall  sooner  overtake  the  dawn  by 
remaining  here  than  by  hurrying  over  the  hills 
of  the  west.  Be  assured  that  every  man's  suc 
cess  is  in  proportion  to  his  average  ability. 
The  meadow  flowers  spring  and  bloom  where 
the  waters  annually  deposit  their  slime,  not 
where  they  reach  in  some  freshet  only.  A  man 
is  not  his  hope,  nor  his  despair,  nor  yet  his  past 
deed.  We  know  not  yet  what  we  have  done, 
still  less  what  we  are  doing.  Wait  till  evening, 
and  other  parts  of  our  day's  work  will  shine 
than  we  had  thought  at  noon,  and  we  shall  dis 
cover  the  real  purport  of  our  toil.  As  when 
the  farmer  has  reached  the  end  of  the  furrow 
and  looks  back,  he  can  tell  best  where  the 
pressed  earth  shines  most. 

To  one  who  habitually  endeavors  to  contem 
plate  the  true  state  of  things,  the  political  state 
can  hardly  be  said  to  have  any  existence  what 
ever.  It  is  unreal,  incredible,  and  insignificant 
to  him,  and  for  him  to  endeavor  to  extract  the 
truth  from  such  lean  material  is  like  making 
sugar  from  linen  rags,  when  sugar-cane  may  be 
had.  Generally  speaking,  the  political  news, 


MONDAY  167 

whether  domestic  or  foreign,  might  be  written 
to-day  for  the  next  ten  years  with  sufficient 
accuracy.  Most  revolutions  in  society  have  not 
power  to  interest,  still  less  alarm  us;  but  tell 
me  that  our  rivers  are  drying  up,  or  the  genus 
pine  dying  out  in  the  country,  and  I  might  at 
tend.  Most  events  recorded  in  history  are  more 
remarkable  than  important,  like  eclipses  of  the 
sun  and  moon,  by  which  all  are  attracted,  but 
whose  effects  no  one  takes  the  trouble  to  calcu 
late. 

But  will  the  government  never  be  so  well  ad 
ministered,  inquired  one,  that  we  private  men 
shall  hear  nothing  about  it?  "The  king  an 
swered  :  At  all  events,  I  require  a  prudent  and 
able  man,  who  is  capable  of  managing  the  state 
affairs  of  my  kingdom.  The  ex-minister  said : 
The  criterion,  O  Sire !  of  a  wise  and  competent 
man  is,  that  he  will  not  meddle  with  such  like 
matters."  Alas  that  the  ex-minister  should 
have  been  so  nearly  right ! 

In  my  short  experience  of  human  life,  the 
outward  obstacles,  if  there  were  any  such,  have 
not  been  living  men,  but  the  institutions  of  the 
dead.  It  is  grateful  to  make  one's  way  through 
this  latest  generation  as  through  dewy  grass. 
Men  are  as  innocent  as  the  morning  to  the  un 
suspicious. 

"  And  round  about  good  morrows  fly, 
As  if  day  taught  humanity." 


168  A   WEEK 

Not  being  Reve  of  this  Shire, — 

"  The  early  pilgrim  blythe  he  hailed, 
That  o'er  the  hills  did  stray, 
And  many  an  early  husbandman, 
That  he  met  on  the  way  ;  "  — 

thieves  and  robbers  all,  nevertheless.  I  have 
not  so  surely  foreseen  that  any  Cossack  or 
Chippeway  would  come  to  disturb  the  honest 
and  simple  commonwealth,  as  that  some  mon 
ster  institution  would  at  length  embrace  and 
crush  its  free  members  in  its  scaly  folds ;  for  it 
is  not  to  be  forgotten,  that  while  the  law  holds 
fast  the  thief  and  murderer,  it  lets  itself  go 
loose.  When  I  have  not  paid  the  tax  which  the 
State  demanded  for  that  protection  which  I  did 
not  want,  itself  has  robbed  me;  when  I  have 
asserted  the  liberty  it  presumed  to  declare,  it 
self  has  imprisoned  me.  Poor  creature!  if  it 
knows  no  better  I  will  not  blame  it.  If  it  can 
not  live  but  by  these  means,  I  can.  I  do  not 
wish,  it  happens,  to  be  associated  with  Massa 
chusetts,  either  in  holding  slaves  or  in  conquer 
ing  Mexico.  I  am  a  little  better  than  herself 
in  these  respects.  As  for  Massachusetts,  that 
huge  she  Briareus,  Argus  and  Colchian  Dragon 
conjoined,  set  to  watch  the  Heifer  of  the  Con 
stitution  and  the  Golden  Fleece,  we  would  not 
warrant  our  respect  for  her,  like  some  compo 
sitions,  to  preserve  its  qualities  through  all 


MONDAY  169 

weathers.  Thus  it  has  happened,  that  not  the 
Arch  Fiend  himself  has  been  in  my  way,  but 
these  toils  which  tradition  says  were  originally 
spun  to  obstruct  him.  They  are  cobwebs  and 
trifling  obstacles  in  an  earnest  man's  path,  it  is 
true,  and  at  length  one  even  becomes  attached 
to  his  unswept  and  undusted  garret.  I  love 
man  —  kind,  but  I  hate  the  institutions  of  the 
dead  unkind.  Men  execute  nothing  so  faith 
fully  as  the  wills  of  the  dead,  to  the  last  codicil 
and  letter.  They  rule  this  world,  and  the  liv 
ing  are  but  their  executors.  Such  foundation 
too  have  our  lectures  and  our  sermons,  com 
monly.  They  are  all  Dudldan;  and  piety 
derives  its  origin  still  from  that  exploit  of  pius 
.sEneaS)  who  bore  his  father,  Anchises,  on  his 
shoulders  from  the  ruins  of  Troy.  Or,  rather, 
like  some  Indian  tribes,  we  bear  about  with  us 
the  mouldering  relics  of  our  ancestors  on  our 
shoulders.  If,  for  instance,  a  man  asserts  the 
value  of  individual  liberty  over  the  merely  po 
litical  commonweal,  his  neighbor  still  tolerates 
him,  that  is,  he  who  is  living  near  him,  some 
times  even  sustains  him,  but  never  the  State. 
Its  officer,  as  a  living  man,  may  have  human 
virtues  and  a  thought  in  his  brain,  but  as  the 
tool  of  an  institution,  a  jailer  or  constable  it 
may  be,  he  is  not  a  whit  superior  to  his  prison 
key  or  his  staff.  Herein  is  the  tragedy :  that  men 


170  A   WEEK 

doing  outrage  to  their  proper  natures,  even 
those  called  wise  and  good,  lend  themselves  tc 
perform  the  office  of  inferior  and  brutal  ones. 
Hence  come  war  and  slavery  in ;  and  what  else 
may  not  come  in  by  this  opening?  But  cer 
tainly  there  are  modes  by  which  a  man  may  put 
bread  into  his  mouth  which  will  not  prejudice 
him  as  a  companion  and  neighbor. 

"  Now  turn  again,  turn  again,  said  the  pind6r, 

For  a  wrong  way  you  have  gone, 
For  you  have  forsaken  the  king's  highway, 
And  made  a  path  over  the  corn." 

Undoubtedly,  countless  reforms  are  called 
for  because  society  is  not  animated,  or  instinct 
enough  with  life,  but  in  the  condition  of  some 
snakes  which  I  have  seen  in  early  spring,  with 
alternate  portions  of  their  bodies  torpid  and 
flexible,  so  that  they  could  wriggle  neither  way. 
All  men  are  partially  buried  in  the  grave  of 
custom,  and  of  some  we  see  only  the  crown  of 
the  head  above  ground.  Better  are  the  physi 
cally  dead,  for  they  more  lively  rot.  Even  vir 
tue  is  no  longer  such  if  it  be  stagnant.  A 
man's  life  should  be  constantly  as  fresh  as  this 
river.  It  should  be  the  same  channel,  but  a 
new  water  every  instant. 

"Virtues  as  rivers  pass, 
But  still  remains  that  virtuous  man  there  was." 

Most  men  have  no  inclination,  no  rapids,  no 


MONDAY  171 

cascades,  but  marshes,  and  alligators,  and  mi 
asma  instead.  We  read  that  when,  in  the  ex 
pedition  of  Alexander,  Onesicritus  was  sent 
forward  to  meet  certain  of  the  Indian  sect  of 
Gymnosophists,  and  he  had  told  them  of  those 
new  philosophers  of  the  West,  Pythagoras, 
Socrates,  and  Diogenes,  and  their  doctrines, 
one  of  them,  named  Dandamis,  answered  that 
"They  appeared  to  him  to  have  been  men  of 
genius,  but  to  have  lived  with  too  passive  a  re 
gard  for  the  laws."  The  philosophers  of  the 
West  are  liable  to  this  rebuke  still.  "They 
say  that  Lieou-hia-hoei,  and  Chao-lien  did  not 
sustain  to  the  end  their  resolutions,  and  that 
they  dishonored  their  character.  Their  lan 
guage  was  in  harmony  with  reason  and  justice ; 
while  their  acts  were  in  harmony  with  the  sen 
timents  of  men." 

Chateaubriand  said:  "There  are  two  things 
which  grow  stronger  in  the  breast  of  man,  in 
proportion  as  he  advances  in  years :  the  love  of 
country  and  religion.  Let  them  be  never  so 
much  forgotten  in  youth,  they  sooner  or  later 
present  themselves  to  us  arrayed  in  all  their 
charms,  and  excite  in  the  recesses  of  our  hearts 
an  attachment  justly  due  to  their  beauty."  It 
may  be  so.  But  even  this  infirmity  of  noble 
minds  marks  the  gradual  decay  of  youthful  hope 
and  faith.  It  is  the  allowed  infidelity  of  ago? 


172  A   WEEK 

There  is  a  saying  of  the  Wolofs,  "He  who  was 
born  first  has  the  greatest  number  of  old 
clothes,"  consequently  M.  Chateaubriand  has 
more  old  clothes  than  I  have.  It  is  compara 
tively  a  faint  and  reflected  beauty  that  is  ad 
mired,  not  an  essential  and  intrinsic  one.  It  is 
because  the  old  are  weak,  feel  their  mortality, 
and  think  that  they  have  measured  the  strength 
of  man.  They  will  not  boast;  they  will  be 
frank  and  humble.  Well,  let  them  have  the 
few  poor  comforts  they  can  keep.  Humility  is 
still  a  very  human  virtue.  They  look  back  on 
life,  and  so  see  not  into  the  future.  The  pros 
pect  of  the  young  is  forward  and  unbounded, 
mingling  the  future  with  the  present.  In  the 
declining  day  the  thoughts  make  haste  to  rest  in 
darkness,  and  hardly  look  forward  to  the  ensu 
ing  morning.  The  thoughts  of  the  old  prepare 
for  night  and  slumber.  The  same  hopes  and 
prospects  are  not  for  him  who  stands  upon  the 
rosy  mountain-tops  of  life,  and  him  who  expects 
the  setting  of  his  earthly  day. 

I  must  conclude  that  Conscience,  if  that  be 
the  name  of  it,  was  not  given  us  for  no  purpose, 
or  for  a  hindrance.  However  flattering  order 
and  expediency  may  look,  it  is  but  the  repose  of 
a  lethargy,  and  we  will  choose  rather  to  be 
awake,  though  it  be  stormy,  and  maintain  our 
selves  on  this  earth,  and  in  this  life,  as  we  may, 


MONDAY  173 

without  signing  our  death-warrant.  Let  us  see 
if  we  cannot  stay  here,  where  He  has  put  us,  on 
his  own  conditions.  Does  not  his  law  reach  as 
far  as  his  light  ?  The  expedients  of  the  nations 
clash  with  one  another,  only  the  absolutely 
right  is  expedient  for  all. 

There  are  some  passages  in  the  Antigone  of 
Sophocles,  well  known  to  scholars,  of  which  I 
am  reminded  in  this  connection.  Antigone  has 
resolved  to  sprinkle  sand  on  the  dead  body  of 
her  brother  Polynices,  notwithstanding  the  edict 
of  King  Creon  condemning  to  death  that  one 
who  should  perform  this  service,  which  the 
Greeks  deemed  so  important,  for  the  enemy  of 
his  country ;  but  Ismene,  who  is  of  a  less  reso 
lute  and  noble  spirit,  declines  taking  part  with 
her  sister  in  this  work,  and  says,  — 

"I,  therefore,  asking  those  under  the  earth 
to  consider  me,  that  I  am  compelled  to  do  thus, 
will  obey  those  who  are  placed  in  office ;  for  to 
do  extreme  things  is  not  wise.5' 

Antigone.  "I  would  not  ask  you,  nor  would 
you,  if  you  still  wished,  do  it  joyfully  with  me. 
Be  such  as  seems  good  to  you.  But  I  will  bury 
him.  It  is  glorious  for  me  doing  this  to  die. 
I  beloved  will  lie  with  him  beloved,  having, 
like  a  criminal,  done  what  is  holy;  since  the 
time  is  longer  which  it  is  necessary  for  me  to 
please  those  below,  than  those  here,  for  there  I 


174  A    WEEK 

shall  always  lie.  But  if  it  seems  good  to  you, 
hold  in  dishonor  things  which  are  honored  by 
the  gods." 

Ismene.  "I  indeed  do  not  hold  them  in  dis 
honor;  but  to  act  in  opposition  to  the  citizens  I 
am  by  nature  unable." 

Antigone  being  at  length  brought  before 
King  Creon,  he  asks,  — 

"Did  you  then  dare  to  transgress  these 
laws?" 

Antigone.  "For  it  was  not  Zeus  who  pro 
claimed  these  to  me,  nor  Justice  who  dwells 
with  the  gods  below ;  it  was  not  they  who  es 
tablished  these  laws  among  men.  Nor  did  I 
think  that  your  proclamations  were  so  strong, 
as,  being  a  mortal,  to  be  able  to  transcend  the 
unwritten  and  immovable  laws  of  the  gods. 
For  not  something  now  and  yesterday,  but  for 
ever  these  live,  and  no  one  knows  from  what 
time  they  appeared.  I  was  not  about  to  pay 
the  penalty  of  violating  these  to  the  gods,  fear 
ing  the  presumption  of  any  man.  For  I  well 
knew  that  I  should  die,  and  why  not?  even  if 
you  had  not  proclaimed  it." 

This  was  concerning  the  burial  of  a  dead 
body. 

The  wisest  conservatism  is  that  of  the  Hin 
doos.  "Immemorial  custom  is  transcendent 


MONDAY  175 

law,"  says  Menu.  That  is,  it  was  the  custom 
of  the  gods  before  men  used  it.  The  fault  of 
our  New  England  custom  is  that  it  is  memorial. 
What  is  morality  but  immemorial  custom? 
Conscience  is  the  chief  of  conservatives.  TfPer- 
form  the  settled  functions,"  says  Kreeshna  in 
the  Bhagvat-Geeta ;  "action  is  preferable  to  in 
action.  The  journey  of  thy  mortal  frame  may 
not  succeed  from  inaction."  "A  man's  own 
calling,  with  all  its  faults,  ought  not  to  be  for 
saken.  Every  undertaking  is  involved  in  its 
faults  as  the  fire  in  its  smoke."  "The  man 
who  is  acquainted  with  the  whole  should  not 
drive  those  from  their  works  who  are  slow 
of  comprehension,  and  less  experienced  than 
himself."  "Wherefore,  O  Arjoon,  resolve  to 
fight."  is  the  advice  of  the  god  to  the  irresolute 
soldier  who  fears  to  slay  his  best  friends.  It  is 
a  sublime  conservatism;  as  wide  as  the  world, 
and  as  unwearied  as  time ;  preserving  the  uni 
verse  with  Asiatic  anxiety,  in  that  state  in 
which  it  appeared  to  their  minds.  These  philos 
ophers  dwell  on  the  inevitability  and  unchange- 
ableness  of  laws,  on  the  power  of  temperament 
and  constitution,  the  three  goon  or  qualities, 
and  the  circumstances  or  birth  and  affinity. 
The  end  is  an  immense  consolation ;  eternal  ab 
sorption  in  Brahma.  Their  speculations  never 
venture  beyond  their  own  table-lands,  though 


1T6  A  WEEK 

they  are  high  and  vast  as  they.  Buoyancy, 
freedom,  flexibility,  variety,  possibility,  which 
also  are  qualities  of  the  Unnamed,  they  deal  not 
with.  The  undeserved  reward  is  to  be  earned 
by  an  everlasting  moral  drudgery;  the  incalcu 
lable  promise  of  the  morrow  is,  as  it  were, 
weighed.  And  who  will  say  that  their  conser 
vatism  has  not  been  effectual?  "Assuredly," 
says  a  French  translator,  speaking  of  the  an 
tiquity  and  durability  of  the  Chinese  and  Indian 
nations,  and  of  the  wisdom  of  their  legislators, 
"there  are  there  some  vestiges  of  the  eternal 
laws  which  govern  the  world." 

Christianity,  on  the  other  hand,  is  humane, 
practical,  and,  in  a  large  sense,  radical.  So 
many  years  and  ages  of  the  gods  those  Eastern 
sages  sat  contemplating  Brahm,  uttering  in  si 
lence  the  mystic  uOm,"  being  absorbed  into  the 
essence  of  the  Supreme  Being,  never  going  out 
of  themselves,  but  subsiding  farther  and  deeper 
within;  so  infinitely  wise,  yet  infinitely  stag 
nant;  until,  at  last,  in  that  same  Asia,  but  in 
the  western  part  of  it,  appeared  a  youth,  wholly 
unf oretold  by  them,  —  not  being  absorbed  into 
Brahm,  but  bringing  Brahm  down  to  earth  and 
to  mankind ;  in  whom  Brahm  had  awaked  from 
his  long  sleep,  and  exerted  himself,  and  the  day 
began,  —  a  new  avatar.  The  Brahman  had 
never  thought  to  be  a  brother  of  mankind  as 


MONDA  Y  177 

well  as  a  child  of  God.  Christ  is  the  prince  of 
Reformers  and  Radicals.  Many  expressions  in 
the  New  Testament  come  naturally  to  the  lips 
of  all  Protestants,  and  it  furnishes  the  most 
pregnant  and  practical  texts.  There  is  no  harm 
less  dreaming,  no  wise  speculation  in  it,  but 
everywhere  a  substratum  of  good  sense.  It 
never  reflects,  but  it  repents.  There  is  no  poe 
try  in  it,  we  may  say,  nothing  regarded  in  the 
light  of  beauty  merely,  but  moral  truth  is  its 
object.  All  mortals  are  convicted  by  its  con 
science. 

The  New  Testament  is  remarkable  for  its  pure 
morality;  the  best  of  the  Hindoo  Scripture, 
for  its  pure  intellectuality.  The  reader  is  no 
where  raised  into  and  sustained  in  a  higher, 
purer,  or  rarer  region  of  thought  than  in  the 
Bhagvat-Geeta.  Warren  Hastings,  in  his  sen 
sible  letter  recommending  the  translation  of  this 
book  to  the  Chairman  of  the  East  India  Com 
pany,  declares  the  original  to  be  "  of  a  sublim 
ity  of  conception,  reasoning,  and  diction  almost 
unequaled,"  and  that  the  writings  of  the  Indian 
philosophers  "will  survive  when  the  British  do 
minion  in  India  shall  have  long  ceased  to  exist, 
and  when  the  sources  which  it  once  yielded  of 
wealth  and  power  are  lost  to  remembrance." 
It  is  unquestionably  one  of  the  noblest  and  most 
sacred  scriptures  which  have  come  down  to  us. 


178  A   WEEK 

Books  are  to  be  distinguished  by  the  grandeur 
of  their  topics  even  more  than  by  the  manner 
in  which  they  are  treated.  The  Oriental  phi 
losophy  approaches  easily  loftier  themes  than 
the  modern  aspires  to;  and  no  wonder  if  it 
sometimes  prattle  about  them.  It  only  assigns 
their  due  rank  respectively  to  Action  and  Con 
templation,  or  rather  does  full  justice  to  the 
latter.  Western  philosophers  have  not  con 
ceived  of  the  significance  of  Contemplation  in 
their  sense.  Speaking  of  the  spiritual  discipline 
to  which  the  Brahmans  subjected  themselves, 
and  the  wonderful  power  of  abstraction  to  which 
they  attained,  instances  of  which  had  come 
under  his  notice,  Hastings  says :  — 

"To  those  who  have  never  been  accustomed 
to  the  separation  of  the  mind  from  the  notices 
of  the  senses,  it  may  not  be  easy  to  conceive  by 
what  means  such  a  power  is  to  be  attained; 
since  even  the  most  studious  men  of  our  hemi 
sphere  will  find  it  difficult  so  to  restrain  their 
attention,  but  that  it  will  wander  to  some  object 
of  present  sense  or  recollection;  and  even  the 
buzzing  of  a  fly  will  sometimes  have  the  power 
to  disturb  it.  But  if  we  are  told  that  there 
have  been  men  who  were  successively,  for  ages 
past,  in  the  daily  habit  of  abstracted  contempla 
tion,  begun  in  the  earliest  period  of  youth,  and 
continued  in  many  to  the  maturity  of  age,  each 


MONDAY  179 

adding  some  portion  of  knowledge  to  the  store 
accumulated  by  his  predecessors;  it  is  not  as 
suming  too  much  to  conclude,  that  as  the  mind 
ever  gathers  strength,  like  the  body,  by  exer 
cise,  so  in  such  an  exercise  it  may  in  each  have 
acquired  the  faculty  to  which  they  aspired,  and 
that  their  collective  studies  may  have  led  them 
to  the  discovery  of  new  tracts  and  com  binations 
of  sentiment,  totally  different  from  the  doctrines 
with  which  the  learned  of  other  nations  are  ac 
quainted;  doctrines  which,  however  speculative 
and  subtle,  still  as  they  possess  the  advantage 
of  being  derived  from  a  source  so  free  from 
every  adventitious  mixture,  may  be  equally 
founded  in  truth  with  the  most  simple  of  our 
own." 

"The  forsaking  of  works"  was  taught  by 
Kreeshna  to  the  most  ancient  of  men,  and 
handed  down  from  age  to  age,  "until  at  length, 
in  the  course  of  time,  the  mighty  art  was  lost." 

"In  wisdom  is  to  be  found  every  work  with 
out  exception,"  says  Kreeshna. 

"Although  thou  wert  the  greatest  of  all  of 
fenders,  thou  shalt  be  able  to  cross  the  gulf  of 
sin  with  the  bark  of  wisdom." 

44  There  is  not  anything  in  this  world  to  be 
compared  with  wisdom  for  purity." 

44  The  action  stands  at  a  distance  inferior  to 
the  application  of  wisdom." 


180  A  WEEK 

The  wisdom  of  a  Moonee  "is  confirmed,  when, 
like  the  tortoise,  he  can  draw  in  all  his  mem 
bers,  and  restrain  them  from  their  wonted  pur 
poses.'* 

"Children  only,  and  not  the  learned,  speak 
of  the  speculative  and  the  practical  doctrines  as 
two.  They  are  but  one.  For  both  obtain  the 
selfsame  end,  and  the  place  which  is  gained  by 
the  followers  of  the  one  is  gained  by  the  follow 
ers  of  the  other." 

"The  man  enjoyeth  not  freedom  from  action, 
from  the  non-commencement  of  that  which  he 
hath  to  do ;  nor  doth  he  obtain  happiness  from 
a  total  inactivity.  No  one  ever  resteth  a  mo 
ment  inactive.  Every  man  is  involuntarily 
urged  to  act  by  those  principles  which  are  in 
herent  in  his  nature.  The  man  who  restraineth 
his  active  faculties,  and  sitteth  down  with  his 
mind  attentive  to  the  objects  of  his  senses,  is 
called  one  of  an  astrayed  soul,  and  the  practicer 
of  deceit.  So  the  man  is  praised,  who,  having 
subdued  all  his  passions,  performeth  with  his 
active  faculties  all  the  functions  of  life,  uncon 
cerned  about  the  event." 

"  Let  the  motive  be  in  the  deed  and  not  in  the 
event.  Be  not  one  whose  motive  for  action  is 
the  hope  of  reward.  Let  not  thy  life  be  spent 
in  inaction." 

"For  the  man  who  doeth  that  which  he  hath 


MONDA  Y  181 

to  do,  without  affection,  obtaineth  the  Su 
preme." 

"He  who  may  behold  as  it  were  inaction  in 
action,  and  action  in  inaction,  is  wise  amongst 
mankind.  He  is  a  perfect  performer  of  al] 
duty." 

"Wise  men  call  him  a  Pandeet,  whose  every 
undertaking  is  free  from  the  idea  of  desire,  and 
whose  actions  are  consumed  by  the  fire  of  wis 
dom.  He  abandoneth  the  desire  of  a  reward  of 
his  actions;  he  is  always  contented  and  inde 
pendent  ;  and  although  he  may  be  engaged  in  a 
work,  he  as  it  were  doeth  nothing." 

"He  is  both  a  Yogee  and  a  Sannyasee  who 
performeth  that  which  he  hath  to  do  indepen 
dent  of  the  fruit  thereof;  not  he  who  liveth 
without  the  sacrificial  fire  and  without  action." 

"He  who  enjoyeth  but  the  Amreeta  which  is 
left  of  his  offerings  obtaineth  the  eternal  spirit 
of  Brahm,  the  Supreme." 

What,  after  all,  does  the  practicalness  of  life 
amount  to  ?  The  things  immediate  to  be  done 
are  very  trivial.  I  could  postpone  them  all  to 
hear  this  locust  sing.  The  most  glorious  fact 
in  my  experience  is  not  anything  that  I  have 
done  or  may  hope  to  do,  but  a  transient  thought, 
or  vision,  or  dream,  which  I  have  had.  I 
would  give  all  the  wealth  of  the  world,  and  all 
the  deeds  of  all  the  heroes,  for  one  true  vision. 


182  A   WEEK 

But  how  can  I  communicate  witk  the  gods,  who 
am  a  pencil-maker  on  the  earth,  and  not  be 
insane  ? 

"I  am  the  same  to  all  mankind,"  says 
Kreeshna ;  "  there  is  not  one  who  is  worthy  of 
my  love  or  hatred." 

This  teaching  is  not  practical  in  the  sense  in 
which  the  New  Testament  is.  It  is  not  always 
sound  sense  in  practice.  The  Brahman  never 
proposes  courageously  to  assault  evil,  but  pa 
tiently  to  starve  it  out.  His  active  faculties 
are  paralyzed  by  the  idea  of  caste,  of  impassa 
ble  limits,  of  destiny  and  the  tyranny  of  time. 
Kreeshna 's  argument,  it  must  be  allowed,  is 
defective.  No  sufficient  reason  is  given  why 
Arjoon  should  fight.  Arjoon  may  be  con 
vinced,  but  the  reader  is  not,  for  his  judgment 
is  not  "formed  upon  the  speculative  doctrines 
of  the  Sankhya  Sastra."  "Seek  an  asylum  in 
wisdom  alone; "  but  what  is  wisdom  to  a  West 
ern  mind  ?  The  duty  of  which  he  speaks  is  an 
arbitrary  one.  When  was  it  established  ?  The 
Brahman's  virtue  consists  in  doing,  not  right, 
but  arbitrary  things.  What  is  that  which  a 
man  "  hath  to  do  "  ?  What  is  "  action  "  ?  What 
are  the  "settled  functions"?  What  is  "a 
man's  own  religion,"  which  is  so  much  better 
than  another's?  What  is  "a  man's  own  par 
ticular  calling "?  What  are  the  duties  which 


MONDAY  183 

are  appointed  by  one's  birth?  It  is  a  defense 
of  the  institution  of  castes,  of  what  is  called  the 
"  natural  duty  "  of  the  Kshetree,  or  soldier,  "  to 
attach  himself  to  the  discipline,"  "not  to  flee 
from  the  field,"  and  the  like.  But  they  who 
are  unconcerned  about  the  consequences  of  their 
actions  are  not  therefore  unconcerned  about 
their  actions. 

Behold  the  difference  between  the  Oriental 
and  the  Occidental.  The  former  has  nothing 
to  do  in  this  world ;  the  latter  is  full  of  activity. 
The  one  looks  in  the  sun  till  his  eyes  are  put 
out;  the  other  follows  him  prone  in  his  west 
ward  course.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  caste, 
even  in  the  West ;  but  it  is  comparatively  faint ; 
it  is  conservatism  here.  It  says,  forsake  not 
your  calling,  outrage  no  institution,  use  no  vio 
lence,  rend  no  bonds;  the  State  is  thy  parent. 
Its  virtue  or  manhood  is  wholly  filial.  There 
is  a  struggle  between  the  Oriental  and  Occi 
dental  in  every  nation;  some  who  would  be  for 
ever  contemplating  the  sun,  and  some  who  are 
hastening  toward  the  sunset.  The  former  class 
says  to  the  latter,  When  you  have  reached  the 
sunset,  you  will  be  no  nearer  to  the  sun.  To 
which  the  latter  replies,  But  we  so  prolong  the 
day.  The  former  "walketh  but  in  that  night, 
when  all  things  go  to  rest  in  the  night  of  time. 
The  contemplative  Moonee  sleepeth  but  in  the 
day  of  time,  when  all  things  wake." 


184  A   WEEK 

To  conclude  these  extracts,  I  can  say,  in  the 
words  of  Sanjay,  "As,  O  mighty  Prince!  I 
recollect  again  and  again  this  holy  and  wonder 
ful  dialogue  of  Kreeshna  and  Arjoon,  I  con 
tinue  more  and  more  to  rejoice;  and  as  I  recall 
to  my  memory  the  more  than  miraculous  form 
of  Haree,  my  astonishment  is  great,  and  I  mar 
vel  and  rejoice  again  and  again!  Wherever 
Kreeshna  the  God  of  devotion  may  be,  wher 
ever  Arjoon  the  mighty  bowman  may  be,  there 
too,  without  doubt,  are  fortune,  riches,  victory, 
and  good  conduct.  This  is  my  firm  belief." 

I  would  say  to  the  readers  of  Scriptures, 
if  they  wish  for  a  good  book,  read  the  Bhag- 
vat-Geeta,  an  episode  to  the  Mahabharat,  said 
to  have  been  written  by  Kreeshna  Dwypayen 

Veias,  —  known  to  have  been  written  by , 

more  than  four  thousand  years  ago,  —  it  mat 
ters  not  whether  three  or  four,  or  when,  — 
translated  by  Charles  Wilkins.  It  deserves  to 
be  read  with  reverence  even  by  Yankees,  as  a 
part  of  the  sacred  writings  of  a  devout  people ; 
and  the  intelligent  Hebrew  will  rejoice  to  find 
in  it  a  moral  grandeur  and  sublimity  akin  to 
those  of  his  own  Scriptures. 

To  an  American  reader,  who,  by  the  advan 
tage  of  his  position,  can  see  over  that  strip  of 
Atlantic  coast  to  Asia  and  the  Pacific,  who,  as 
it  were,  sees  the  shore  slope  upward  over  the 


MONDAY  185 

Alps  to  the  Himmaleh  Mountains,  the  compar 
atively  recent  literature  of  Europe  often  appears 
partial  and  clannish;  and,  notwithstanding  the 
limited  range  of  his  own  sympathies  and  studies, 
the  European  writer  who  presumes  that  he  is 
speaking  for  the  world  is  perceived  by  him  to 
speak  only  for  that  corner  of  it  which  he  in 
habits.  One  of  the  rarest  of  England's  scholars 
and  critics,  in  his  classification  of  the  worthies 
of  the  world,  betrays  the  narrowness  of  his  Eu 
ropean  culture  and  the  exclusiveness  of  his  read 
ing.  None  of  her  children  has  done  justice  to 
the  poets  and  philosophers  of  Persia  or  of  India. 
They  have  even  been  better  known  to  her  mer 
chant  scholars  than  to  her  poets  and  thinkers 
by  profession.  You  may  look  in  vain  through 
English  poetry  for  a  single  memorable  verse 
inspired  by  these  themes.  Nor  is  Germany  to 
be  excepted,  though  her  philological  industry 
is  indirectly  serving  the  cause  of  philosophy 
and  poetry.  Even  Goethe  wanted  that  univer 
sality  of  genius  which  could  have  appreciated 
the  philosophy  of  India,  if  he  had  more  nearly 
approached  it.  His  genius  was  more  practical, 
dwelling  much  more  in  the  regions  of  the 
understanding,  and  was  less  native  to  contem 
plation  than  the  genius  of  those  sages.  It  is 
remarkable  that  Homer  and  a  few  Hebrews  are 
the  most  Oriental  names  which  modern  Europe, 


186  A   WEEK 

t 

whose  literature  has  taken  its  rise  since  the  de 
cline  of  the  Persian,  has  admitted  into  her  list 
of  Worthies,  and  perhaps  the  worthiest  of  man 
kind,  and  the  fathers  of  modern  thinking,  —  for 
the  contemplations  of  those  Indian  sages  have 
influenced,  and  still  influence,  the  intellectual 
development  of  mankind,  —  whose  works  even 
yet  survive  in  wonderful  completeness,  are,  for 
the  most  part,  not  recognized  as  ever  having 
existed.  If  the  lions  had  been  the  painters, 
it  would  have  been  otherwise.  .  In  every  one's 
youthful  dreams,  philosophy  is  still  vaguely  but 
inseparably,  and  with  singular  truth,  associated 
with  the  East,  nor  do  after  years  discover  its 
local  habitation  in  the  Western  world.  In  com 
parison  with  the  philosophers  of  the  East,  we 
may  say  that  modern  Europe  has  yet  given 
birth  to  none.  Beside  the  vast  and  cosmogonal 
philosophy  of  the  Bhagvat-Geeta,  even  our 
Shakespeare  seems  sometimes  youthfully  green 
and  practical  merely.  Some  of  these  sublime 
sentences,  as  the  Chaldaean  oracles  of  Zoroaster, 
still  surviving  after  a  thousand  revolutions  and 
translations,  alone  make  us  doubt  if  the  poetic 
form  and  dress  are  not  transitory,  and  not  es 
sential  to  the  most  effective  and  enduring  ex 
pression  of  thought.  Ex  oriente  lux  may  still 
be  the  motto  of  scholars,  for  the  Western  world 
has  not  yet  derived  from  the  East  all  the  light 
which  it  is  destined  to  receive  thence. 


MONDA  Y  187 

It  would  be  worthy  of  the  age  to  print  to 
gether  the  collected  Scriptures  or  Sacred  Writ 
ings  of  the  several  nations,  the  Chinese,  the 
Hindoos,  the  Persians,  the  Hebrews,  and  oth 
ers,  as  the  Scripture  of  mankind.  The  New 
Testament  is  still,  perhaps,  too  much  on  the  lips 
and  in  the  hearts  of  men  to  be  called  a  Scrip 
ture  in  this  sense.  Such  a  juxtaposition  and 
comparison  might  help  to  liberalize  the  faith  of 
men.  This  is  a  work  which  Time  will  surely 
edit,  reserved  to  crown  the  labors  of  the  print 
ing-press.  This  would  be  the  Bible,  or  Book 
of  Books,  which  let  the  missionaries  carry  to 
the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth. 

While  engaged  in  these  reflections,  thinking 
ourselves  the  only  navigators  of  these  waters, 
suddenly  a  canal-boat,  with  its  sail  set,  glided 
round  a  point  before  us,  like  some  huge  river 
beast,  and  changed  the  scene  in  an  instant;  and 
then  another  and  another  glided  into  sight,  and 
we  found  ourselves  in  the  current  of  commerce 
once  more.  So  we  threw  our  rinds  in  the  water 
for  the  fishes  to  nibble,  and  added  our  breath 
to  the  life  of  living  men.  Little  did  we  think, 
in  the  distant  garden  in  which  we  had  planted 
the  seed  and  reared  this  fruit,  where  it  would 
be  eaten.  Our  melons  lay  at  home  on  the  sandy 
bottom  of  the  Merrimack,  and  our  potatoes  in 


188  A   WEEK 

the  sun  and  water  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat 
looked  like  a  fruit  of  the  country.  Soon,  how 
ever,  we  were  delivered  from  this  fleet  of  junks, 
and  possessed  the  river  in  solitude,  once  more 
rowing  steadily  upward  through  the  noon,  be 
tween  the  territories  of  Nashua  on  the  one  hand, 
and  Hudson,  once  Nottingham,  on  the  other. 
From  time  to  time  we  scared  up  a  kingfisher  or 
a  summer  duck,  the  former  flying  rather  by 
vigorous  impulses  than  by  steady  and  patient 
steering  with  that  short  rudder  of  his,  sounding 
his  rattle  along  the  fluvial  street. 

Erelong  another  scow  hove  in  sight,  creeping 
down  the  river;  and  hailing  it,  we  attached  our 
selves  to  its  side,  and  floated  back  in  company, 
chatting  with  the  boatmen,  and  obtaining  a 
draught  of  cooler  water  from  their  jug.  They 
appeared  to  be  green  hands  from  far  among 
the  hills,  who  had  taken  this  means  to  get  to 
the  seaboard,  and  see  the  world;  and  would 
possibly  visit  the  Falkland  Isles,  and  the  China 
seas,  before  they  again  saw  the  waters  of  the 
Merrimack,  or,  perchance,  they  would  not  re 
turn  this  way  forever.  They  had  already  em 
barked  the  private  interests  of  the  landsman  in 
the  larger  venture  of  the  race,  and  were  ready 
to  mess  with  mankind,  reserving  only  the  till 
of  a  chest  to  themselves.  But  they  too  were 
soon  lost  behind  a  point,  and  we  went  croaking 


MONDAY  189 

on  our  way  alone.  What  grievance  has  its  root 
among  the  New  Hampshire  hills?  we  asked; 
what  is  wanting  to  human  life  here,  that  these 
men  should  make  such  haste  to  the  antipodes  ? 
We  prayed  that  their  bright  anticipations  might 
not  be  rudely  disappointed. 

Though  all  the  fates  should  prove  unkind, 
Leave  not  your  native  land  behind. 
The  ship,  becalmed,  at  length  stands  still ; 
The  steed  must  rest  beneath  the  hill ; 
But  swiftly  still  our  fortunes  pace 
To  find  us  out  in  every  place. 

The  vessel,  though  her  masts  be  firm, 

Beneath  her  copper  bears  a  worm ; 

Around  the  cape,  across  the  line, 

Till  fields  of  ice  her  course  confine  ; 

It  matters  not  how  smooth  the  breeze, 

How  shallow  or  how  deep  the  seas, 

Whether  she  bears  Manilla  twine, 

Or  in  her  hold  Madeira  wine, 

Or  China  teas,  or  Spanish  hides, 

In  port  or  quarantine  she  rides ; 

Far  from  New  England's  blustering  shore, 

New  England's  worm  her  hulk  shall  bore, 

And  sink  her  in  the  Indian  seas, 

Twine,  wine,  and  hides,  and  China  teas. 

We  passed  a  small  desert  here  on  the  east 
bank,  between  Tyngsborough  and  Hudson, 
which  was  interesting  and  even  refreshing  to 
our  eyes  in  the  midst  of  the  almost  universal 
greenness.  This  sand  was  indeed  somewhat 
impressive  and  beautiful  to  us.  A  very  old 


190  A   WEEK 

inhabitant,  who  was  at  work  in  a  field  on  the 
Nashua  side,  told  us  that  he  remembered  when 
corn  and  grain  grew  there,  and  it  was  a  culti 
vated  field.  But  at  length  the  fishermen,  for 
this  was  a  fishing-place,  pulled  up  the  bushes 
on  the  shore,  for  greater  convenience  in  haul 
ing  their  seines,  and  when  the  bank  was  thus 
broken,  the  wind  began  to  blow  up  the  sand 
from  the  shore,  until  at  length  it  had  covered 
about  fifteen  acres  several  feet  deep.  We  saw 
near  the  river,  where  the  sand  was  blown  off 
down  to  some  ancient  surface,  the  foundation 
of  an  Indian  wigwam  exposed,  a  perfect  circle 
of  burnt  stones,  four  or  five  feet  in  diameter, 
mingled  with  fine  charcoal,  and  the  bones  of 
small  animals  which  had  been  preserved  in  the 
sand.  The  surrounding  sand  was  sprinkled 
with  other  burnt  stones  on  which  their  fires  had 
been  built,  as  well  as  with  flakes  of  arrow-head 
stone,  and  we  found  one  perfect  arrow-head. 
In  one  place  we  noticed  where  an  Indian  had 
sat  to  manufacture  arrow -heads  out  of  quartz, 
and  the  sand  was  sprinkled  with  a  quart  of 
small  glass-like  chips  about  as  big  as  a  four- 
pence,  which  he  had  broken  off  in  his  work. 
Here,  then,  the  Indians  must  have  fished  before 
the  whites  arrived.  There  was  another  similar 
sandy  tract  about  half  a  mile  above  this. 


MONDAY  19.1 

Still  the  noon  prevailed,  and  we  turned  the 
prow  aside  to  bathe,  and  recline  ourselves  under 
some  buttonwoods,  by  a  ledge  of  rocks,  in  a  re 
tired  pasture  sloping  to  the  water's  edge,  and 
skirted  with  pines  and  hazels,  in  the  town  of 
Hudson.  Still  had  India,  and  that  old  noon 
tide  philosophy,  the  better  part  of  our  thoughts. 

It  is  always  singular,  but  encouraging,  to 
meet  with  common  sense  in  very  old  books,  as 
the  Heetopades  of  Veeshnoo  Sarma;  a  playful 
wisdom  which  has  eyes  behind  as  well  as  before, 
and  oversees  itself.  It  asserts  their  health  and 
independence  of  the  experience  of  later  times. 
This  pledge  of  sanity  cannot  be  spared  in  a 
book,  that  it  sometimes  pleasantly  reflect  upon 
itself.  The  story  and  fabulous  portion  of  this 
book  winds  loosely  from  sentence  to  sentence  as 
so  many  oases  in  a  desert,  and  is  as  indistinct 
as  a  camel's  track  between  Mourzouk  and  Dar- 
four.  It  is  a  comment  on  the  flow  and  freshet 
of  modern  books.  The  reader  leaps  from  sen 
tence  to  sentence,  as  from  one  stepping-stone 
to  another,  while  the  stream  of  the  story  rushes 
past  unregarded.  The  Bhagvat-Geeta  is  less 
sententious  and  poetic,  perhaps,  but  still  more 
wonderfully  sustained  and  developed.  Its  sanity 
and  sublimity  have  impressed  the  minds  even 
of  soldiers  and  merchants.  It  is  the  character 
istic  of  great  poems  that  they  will  yield  of  their 


192  A  WEEK 

sense  in  due  proportion  to  the  hasty  and  the 
deliberate  reader.  To  the  practical  they  will 
be  common  sense,  and  to  the  wise  wisdom;  as 
either  the  traveler  may  wet  his  lips,  or  an 
army  may  fill  its  water-casks  at  a  full  stream. 

One  of  the  most  attractive  of  those  ancient 
books  that  I  have  met  with  is  the  Laws  of 
Menu.  According  to  Sir  William  Jones, 
"Vyasa,  the  son  of  Parasara,  has  decided  that 
the  Veda,  with  its  Angas,  or  the  six  composi 
tions  deduced  from  it,  the  revealed  system  of 
medicine,  the  Puranas  or  sacred  histories,  and 
the  code  of  Menu,  were  four  works  of  supreme 
authority,  which  ought  never  to  be  shaken  by 
arguments  merely  human."  The  last  is  believed 
by  the  Hindoos  "to  have  been  promulged  in  the 
beginning  of  time,  by  Menu,  son  or  grandson 
of  Brahma,"  and  "first  of  created  beings; "  and 
Brahma  is  said  to  have  "taught  his  laws  to 
Menu  in  a  hundred  thousand  verses,  which 
Menu  explained  to  the  primitive  world  in  the 
very  words  of  the  book  now  translated."  Oth 
ers  affirm  that  they  have  undergone  successive 
abridgments  for  the  convenience  of  mortals, 
"while  the  gods  of  the  lower  heaven  and  the 
band  of  celestial  musicians  are  engaged  in 
studying  the  primary  code."  "A  number  of 
glosses  or  comments  on  Menu  were  composed 
by  the  Munis,  or  old  philosophers,  whose  trea- 


MONDAY  193 

tises,  together  with  that  before  us,  constitute  the 
Dherma  Sastra,  in  a  collective  sense,  or  Body 
of  Law."  Culluca  Bhatta  was  one  of  the  more 
modern  of  these. 

Every  sacred  book,  successively,  has  been 
accepted  in  the  faith  that  it  was  to  be  the  final 
resting-place  of  the  sojourning  soul;  but  after 
all,  it  was  but  a  caravansary  which  supplied 
refreshment  to  the  traveler,  and  directed  him 
farther  on  his  way  to  Isphahan  or  Bagdat. 
Thank  God,  no  Hindoo  tyranny  prevailed  at 
the  framing  of  the  world,  but  we  are  freemen  of 
the  universe,  and  not  sentenced  to  any  caste. 

I  know  of  no  book  which  has  come  down  to 
us  with  grander  pretensions  than  this,  and  it  is 
so  impersonal  and  sincere  that  it  is  never  offen 
sive  nor  ridiculous.  Compare  the  modes  in 
which  modern  literature  is  advertised  with  the 
prospectus  of  this  book,  and  think  what  a  read 
ing  public  it  addresses,  what  criticism  it  ex 
pects.  It  seems  to  have  been  uttered  from  some 
eastern  summit,  with  a  sober  morning  prescience 
in  the  dawn  of  time,  and  you  cannot  read  a 
sentence  without  being  elevated  as  upon  the 
table-land  of  the  Ghauts.  It  has  such  a  rhythm 
as  the  winds  of  the  desert,  such  a  tide  as  the 
Ganges,  and  is  as  superior  to  criticism  as  the 
Himmaleh  Mountains.  Its  tone  is  of  such  un- 
relaxed  fibre  that  even  at  this  late  day,  unworn 


194  A   WEEK 

by  time,  it  wears  the  English  and  the  Sanskrit 
dress  indifferently ;  and  its  fixed  sentences  keep 
up  their  distant  fires  still,  like  the  stars,  by 
whose  dissipated  rays  this  lower  world  is  illu 
mined.  The  whole  book  by  noble  gestures  and 
inclinations  renders  many  words  unnecessary. 
English  sense  has  toiled,  but  Hindoo  wisdom 
never  perspired.  Though  the  sentences  open  as 
we  read  them,  unexpensively,  and  at  first  almost 
unmeaningly,  as  the  petals  of  a  flower,  they 
sometimes  startle  us  with  that  rare  kind  of  wis 
dom  which  could  only  have  been  learned  from 
the  most  trivial  experience ;  but  it  comes  to  us 
as  refined  as  the  porcelain  earth  which  subsides 
to  the  bottom  of  the  ocean.  They  are  clean  and 
dry  as  fossil  truths,  which  have  been  exposed  to 
the  elements  for  thousands  of  years,  so  imper 
sonally  and  scientifically  true  that  they  are  the 
ornament  of  the  parlor  and  the  cabinet.  Any 
moral  philosophy  is  exceedingly  rare.  This  of 
Menu  addresses  our  privacy  more  than  most. 
It  is  a  more  private  and  familiar,  and  at  the 
same  time  a  more  public  and  universal  word, 
than  is  spoken  in  parlor  or  pulpit  nowadays. 
As  our  domestic  fowls  are  said  to  have  their 
original  in  the  wild  pheasant  of  India,  so  our 
domestic  thoughts  have  their  prototypes  in  the 
thoughts  of  her  philosophers.  We  are  dabbling 
in  the  very  elements  of  our  present  conventional 


MONDAY  195 

and  actual  life ;  as  if  it  were  the  primeval  con 
venticle,  where  how  to  eat,  and  to  drink,  and  to 
sleep,  and  maintain  life  with  adequate  dignity 
and  sincerity,  were  the  questions  to  be  decided. 
It  is  later  and  more  intimate  with  us  even  than 
the  advice  of  our  nearest  friends.  And  yet  it 
is  true  for  the  widest  horizon,  and  read  out  of 
doors  has  relation  to  the  dim  mountain  line,  and 
is  native  and  aboriginal  there.  Most  books  be 
long  to  the  house  and  street  only,  and  in  the 
fields  their  leaves  feel  very  thin.  They  are  bare 
and  obvious,  and  have  no  halo  nor  haze  about 
them.  Nature  lies  far  and  fair  behind  them  all. 
But  this,  as  it  proceeds  from,  so  it  addresses, 
what  is  deepest  and  most  abiding  in  man.  It 
belongs  to  the  noontide  of  the  day,  the  midsum 
mer  of  the  year,  and  after  the  snows  have 
melted,  and  the  waters  evaporated  in  the  spring, 
still  its  truth  speaks  freshly  to  our  experience. 
It  helps  the  sun  to  shine,  and  his  rays  fall  on  its 
page  to  illustrate  it.  It  spends  the  mornings 
and  the  evenings,  and  makes  such  an  impression 
on  us  overnight  as  to  awaken  us  before  dawn, 
and  its  influence  lingers  around  us  like  a  fra 
grance  late  into  the  day.  It  conveys  a  new 
gloss  to  the  meadows  and  the  depths  of  the 
wood,  and  its  spirit,  like  a  more  subtile  ether, 
sweeps  along  with  the  prevailing  winds  of  a 
country.  The  very  locusts  and  crickets  of  a 


196  A  WEEK 

summer  day  are  but  later  or  earlier  glosses  on 
the  Dherma  Sastra  of  the  Hindoos,  a  continua 
tion  of  the  sacred  code.  As  we  have  said,  there 
is  an  orientalism  in  the  most  restless  pioneer, 
and  the  farthest  west  is  but  the  farthest  east. 
While  we  are  reading  these  sentences,  this  fair 
modern  world  seems  only  a  reprint  of  the  Laws 
of  Menu  with  the  gloss  of  Culluca.  Tried  by  a 
New  England  eye,  or  the  mere  practical  wisdom 
of  modern  times,  they  are  the  oracles  of  a  race 
already  in  its  dotage,  but  held  up  to  the  sky, 
which  is  the  only  impartial  and  incorruptible 
ordeal,  they  are  of  a  piece  with  its  depth  and 
serenity,  and  I  am  assured  that  they  will  have  a 
place  and  significance  as  long  as  there  is  a  sky 
to  test  them  by. 

Give  me  a  sentence  which  no  intelligence  can 
understand.  There  must  be  a  kind  of  life  and 
palpitation  to  it,  and  under  its  words  a  kind  of 
blood  must  circulate  forever.  It  is  wonderful 
that  this  sound  should  have  come  down  to  us 
from  so  far,  when  the  voice  of  man  can  be  heard 
so  little  way,  and  we  are  not  now  within  ear 
shot  of  any  contemporary.  The  woodcutters 
have  here  felled  an  ancient  pine  forest,  and 
brought  to  light  to  these  distant  hills  a  fair  lake 
in  the  southwest;  and  now  in  an  instant  it  is 
distinctly  shown  to  these  woods  as  if  its  image 
had  traveled  hither  from  eternity.  Perhaps 


MONDAY  197 

these  old  stumps  upon  the  knoll  remember  when 
anciently  this  lake  gleamed  in  the  horizon. 
One  wonders  if  the  bare  earth  itself  did  not  ex 
perience  emotion  at  beholding  again  so  fair  a 
prospect.  That  fair  water  lies  there  in  the  sun 
thus  revealed,  so  much  the  prouder  and  fairer 
because  its  beauty  needed  not  to  be  seen.  It 
seems  yet  lonely,  sufficient  to  itself,  and  supe 
rior  to  observation.  So  are  these  old  sentences 
like  serene  lakes  in  the  southwest,  at  length  re 
vealed  to  us,  which  have  so  long  been  reflecting 
our  own  sky  in  their  bosom. 

The  great  plain  of  India  lies  as  in  a  cup  be 
tween  the  Himmaleh  and  the  ocean  on  the  north 
and  south,  and  the  Brahmapootra  and  Indus 
on  the  east  and  west,  wherein  the  primeval  race 
was  received.  We  will  not  dispute  the  story. 
We  are  pleased  to  read  in  the  natural  history  of 
the  country,  of  the  "pine,  larch,  spruce,  and 
silver  fir,"  which  cover  the  southern  face  of  the 
Himmaleh  range;  of  the  "gooseberry,  rasp 
berry,  strawberry,"  which  from  an  imminent 
temperate  zone  overlook  the  torrid  plains.  So 
did  this  active  modern  life  have  even  then  a 
foothold  and  lurking-place  in  the  midst  of  the 
stateliness  and  contemplativeness  of  those  East 
ern  plains.  In  another  era  the  "lily  of  the 
valley,  cowslip,  dandelion,"  were  to  work  their 
way  down  into  the  plain,  and  bloom  in  a  level 


198  A   WEEK 

zone  of  their  own  reaching  round  the  earth. 
Already  has  the  era  of  the  temperate  zone  ar 
rived,  the  era  of  the  pine  and  the  oak,  for  the 
palm  and  the  banian  do  not  supply  the  wants  of 
this  age.  The  lichens  on  the  summits  of  the 
rocks  will  perchance  find  their  level  erelong. 

As  for  the  tenets  of  the  Brahmans,  we  are 
not  so  much  concerned  to  know  what  doctrines 
they  held,  as  that  they  were  held  by  any.  We 
can  tolerate  all  philosophies,  Atomists,  Pneu- 
matologists,  Atheists,  Theists,  —  Plato,  Aristo 
tle,  Leucippus,  Democritus,  Pythagoras,  Zoro 
aster,  and  Confucius.  It  is  the  attitude  of  these 
men,  more  than  any  communication  which  they 
make,  that  attracts  us.  Between  them  and  their 
commentators,  it  is  true,  there  is  an  endless  dis 
pute.  But  if  it  comes  to  this,  that  you  compare 
notes,  then  you  are  all  wrong.  As  it  is,  each 
takes  us  up  into  the  serene  heavens,  whither  the 
smallest  bubble  rises  as  surely  as  the  largest, 
and  paints  earth  and  sky  for  us.  Any  sincere 
thought  is  irresistible.  The  very  austerity  of 
the  Brahmans  is  tempting  to  the  devotional  soul, 
as  a  more  refined  and  nobler  luxury.  Wants  so 
easily  and  gracefully  satisfied  seem  like  a  more 
refined  pleasure.  Their  conception  of  creation 
is  peaceful  as  a  dream.  "When  that  power 
awakes,  then  has  this  world  its  full  expansion; 
but  when  he  slumbers  with  a  tranquil  spirit, 


MONDAY  199 

then  the  whole  system  fades  away."  In  the 
very  indistinctness  of  their  theogony  a  sublime 
truth  is  implied.  It  hardly  allows  the  reader  to 
rest  in  any  supreme  first  cause,  but  directly  it 
hints  at  a  supremer  still  which  created  the  last, 
and  the  Creator  is  still  behind  increate. 

Nor  will  we  disturb  the  antiquity  of  this  Scrip 
ture,  "From  fire,  from  air,  and  from  the  sun,"  it 
was  "milked  out."  One  might  as  well  investi 
gate  the  chronology  of  light  and  heat.  Let  the 
sun  shine.  Menu  understood  this  matter  best, 
when  he  said,  "Those  best  know  the  divisions  of 
days  and  nights  who  understand  that  the  day  of 
Brahma,  which  endures  to  the  end  of  a  thousand 
such  ages,  [infinite  ages,  nevertheless,  according 
fco  mortal  reckoning,]  gives  rise  to  virtuous  ex 
ertions  ;  and  that  his  night  endures  as  long  as 
his  day."  Indeed,  the  Mussulman  and  Tartar 
dynasties  are  beyond  all  dating.  Methinks  I 
have  lived  under  them  myself.  In  every  man's 
brain  is  the  Sanskrit.  The  Vedas  and  their 
An  gas  are  not  so  ancient  as  serene  contempla 
tion.  Why  will  we  be  imposed  on  by  antiquity? 
Is  the  babe  young?  When  I  behold  it,  it  seems 
more  venerable  than  the  oldest  man ;  it  is  more 
ancient  than  Nestor  or  the  Sibyls,  and  bears  the 
wrinkles  of  father  Saturn  himself.  And  do  we 
live  but  in  the  present  ?  How  broad  a  line  is 
that  ?  I  sit  now  on  a  stump  whose  rings  num- 


200  A  WEEK 

ber  centuries  of  growth.  If  I  look  around  I  see 
that  the  soil  is  composed  of  the  remains  of  just 
such  stumps,  ancestors  to  this.  The  earth  is 
covered  with  mould.  I  thrust  this  stick  many 
aeons  deep  into  its  surface,  and  with  my  heel 
make  a  deeper  furrow  than  the  elements  have 
ploughed  here  for  a  thousand  years.  If  I  listen, 
I  hear  the  peep  of  frogs  which  is  older  than  the 
slime  of  Egypt,  and  the  distant  drumming  of  a 
partridge  on  a  log,  as  if  it  were  the  pulse-beat 
of  the  summer  air.  I  raise  my  fairest  and 
freshest  flowers  in  the  old  mould.  Why,  what 
we  would  fain  call  new  is  not  skin  deep;  the 
earth  is  not  yet  stained  by  it.  It  is  not  the 
fertile  ground  which  we  walk  on,  but  the  leaves 
which  flutter  over  our  heads.  The  newest  is 
jut  the  oldest  made  visible  to  our  senses. 
When  we  dig  up  the  soil  from  a  thousand  feet 
below  the  surface,  we  call  it  new,  and  the  plants 
which  spring  from  it;  and  when  our  vision 
pierces  deeper  into  space,  and  detects  a  remoter 
star,  we  call  that  new  also.  The  place  where 
we  sit  is  called  Hudson,  —  once  it  was  Notting 
ham,  —  once  — 

We  should  read  history  as  little  critically  as 
we  consider  the  landscape,  and  be  more  inter 
ested  by  the  atmospheric  tints  and  various  lights 
and  shades  which  the  intervening  spaces  create 


MONDAY  201 

than  by  its  groundwork  and  composition.  It  is 
the  morning  now  turned  evening  and  seen  in 
the  west,  —  the  same  sun,  but  a  new  light  and 
atmosphere.  Its  beauty  is  like  the  sunset;  not 
a  fresco  painting  on  a  wall,  flat  and  bounded, 
but  atmospheric  and  roving  or  free.  In  reality, 
history  fluctuates  as  the  face  of  the  landscape 
from  morning  to  evening.  What  is  of  moment 
is  its  hue  and  color.  Time  hides  no  treasures ; 
we  want  not  its  then,  but  its  now.  We  do  not 
complain  that  the  mountains  in  the  horizon  are 
blue  and  indistinct ;  they  are  the  more  like  the 
heavens. 

Of  what  moment  are  facts  that  can  be  lost, 
—  which  need  to  be  commemorated?  The  mon 
ument  of  death  will  outlast  the  memory  of  the 
dead.  The  pyramids  do  not  tell  the  tale  which 
was  confided  to  them ;  the  living  fact  commemo 
rates  itself.  Why  look  in  the  dark  for  light? 
Strictly  speaking,  the  historical  societies  have 
not  recovered  one  fact  from  oblivion,  but  are 
themselves  instead  of  the  fact  that  is  lost. 
The  researcher  is  more  memorable  than  the  re 
searched.  The  crowd  stood  admiring  the  mist 
and  the  dim  outlines  of  the  trees  seen  through 
it,  when  one  of  their  number  advanced  to  ex 
plore  the  phenomenon,  and  with  fresh  admira 
tion  all  eyes  were  turned  on  his  dimly  retreating 
figure.  It  is  astonishing  with  how  little  coop- 


202  A  WEEK 

eration  of  the  societies  the  past  is  remembered. 
Its  story  has  indeed  had  another  muse  than  has 
been  assigned  it.  There  is  a  good  instance  of 
the  manner  in  which  all  history  began,  in  Al- 
wakidis'  Arabian  Chronicle:  "I  was  informed 
by  Ahmed  Almatin  Aljorhami,  who  had  it  from 
Kephaa  Ebn  Kais  Aldmiri,  who  had  it  from 
Saiph  E~bn  Fabalah  Alchatquarmi,  who  had  it 
from  Thabet  Ebn  Alkamah,  who  said  he  was 
present  at  the  action."  These  fathers  of  history 
were  not  anxious  to  preserve,  but  to  learn  the 
fact;  and  hence  it  was  not  forgotten.  Critical 
acumen  is  exerted  in  vain  to  uncover  the  past; 
the  past  cannot  be  presented ;  we  cannot  know 
what  we  are  not.  But  one  veil  hangs  over  past, 
present,  and  future,  and  it  is  the  province  of 
the  historian  to  find  out,  not  what  was,  but  what 
is.  Where  a  battle  has  been  fought,  you  will 
find  nothing  but  the  bones  of  men  and  beasts ; 
where  a  battle  is  being  fought,  there  are  hearts 
beating.  We  will  sit  on  a  mound  and  muse, 
and  not  try  to  make  these  skeletons  stand  on 
their  legs  again.  Does  Nature  remember,  think 
you,  that  they  were  men,  or  not  rather  that  they 
are  bones? 

Ancient  history  has  an  air  of  antiquity.  It 
should  be  more  modern.  It  is  written  as  if  the 
spectator  should  be  thinking  of  the  backside  of 
the  picture  on  the  wall,  or  as  if  the  author  ex- 


MONDAY  203 

pected  that  the  dead  would  be  hrs  readers,  and 
wished  to  detail  to  them  their  own  experience. 
Men  seem  anxious  to  accomplish  an  orderly 
retreat  through  the  centuries,  earnestly  rebuild 
ing  the  works  behind,  as  they  are  battered  down 
by  the  encroachments  of  time;  but  while  they 
loiter,  they  and  their  works  both  fall  a  prey  to 
the  arch  enemy.  History  has  neither  the  ven- 
erableness  of  antiquity,  nor  the  freshness  of  the 
modern.  It  does  as  if  it  would  go  to  the  begin 
ning  of  things,  which  natural  history  might 
with  reason  assume  to  do;  but  consider  the 
Universal  History,  and  then  tell  us,  —  when 
did  burdock  and  plantain  sprout  first?  It  has 
been  so  written,  for  the  most  part,  that  the 
times  it  describes  are  with  remarkable  propriety 
called  dark  ages.  They  are  dark,  as  one  has 
observed,  because  we  are  so  in  the  dark  about 
them.  The  sun  rarely  shines  in  history,  what 
with  the  dust  and  confusion ;  and  when  we  meet 
with  any  cheering  fact  which  implies  the  pres 
ence  of  this  luminary,  we  excerpt  and  modern 
ize  it.  As  when  we  read  in  the  history  of  the 
Saxons  that  Edwin  of  Northumbria  "caused 
stakes  to  be  fixed  in  the  highways  where  he  had 
seen  a  clear  spring,"  and  "brazen  dishes  were 
chained  to  them  to  refresh  the  weary  sojourner, 
whose  fatigues  Edwin  had  himself  experienced." 
This  is  worth  all  Arthur's  twelve  battles. 


204  A  WEEK 

"Through  the  shadow  of   the   globe  we    sweep  into   the 

younger  day : 

Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay." 
Than  fifty  years  of  Europe  better  one  New  England  ray  1 

Biography,  too,  is  liable  to  the  same  objec 
tion  ;  it  should  be  autobiography.  Let  us  not, 
as  the  Germans  advise,  endeavor  to  go  abroad 
and  vex  our  bowels  that  we  may  be  somebody 
else  to  explain  him.  If  I  am  not  I,  who  will  be  ? 

But  it  is  fit  that  the  Past  should  be  dark; 
though  the  darkness  is  not  so  much  a  quality  of 
the  past  as  of  tradition.  It  is  not  a  distance  of 
time,  but  a  distance  of  relation,  which  makes 
thus  dusky  its  memorials.  What  is  near  to  the 
heart  of  this  generation  is  fair  and  bright  still. 
Greece  lies  outspread  fair  and  sunshiny  in  floods 
of  light,  for  there  is  the  sun  and  daylight  in  her 
literature  and  art.  Homer  does  not  allow  us  to 
forget  that  the  sun  shone,  —  nor  Phidias,  nor 
the  Parthenon.  Yet  no  era  has  been  wholly 
dark,  nor  will  we  too  hastily  submit  to  the  his 
torian,  and  congratulate  ourselves  on  a  blaze  of 
light.  If  we  could  pierce  the  obscurity  of  those 
remote  years,  we  should  find  it  light  enough; 
only  there  is  not  our  day.  Some  creatures  are 
made  to  see  in  the  dark.  There  has  always 
been  the  same  amount  of  light  in  the  world. 
The  new  and  missing  stars,  the  comets  and 
eclipses,  do  not  affect  the  general  illumination, 


MONDAY  205 

for  only  our  glasses  appreciate  them.  The  eyes 
of  the  oldest  fossil  remains,  they  tell  us,  indicate 
that  the  same  laws  of  light  prevailed  then  as 
now.  Always  the  laws  of  light  are  the  same, 
but  the  modes  and  degrees  of  seeing  vary.  The 
gods  are  partial  to  no  era,  but  steadily  shines 
their  light  in  the  heavens,  while  the  eye  of  the 
beholder  is  turned  to  stone.  There  was  but 
the  sun  and  the  eye  from  the  first.  The  ages 
have  not  added  a  new  ray  to  the  one,  nor  altered 
a  fibre  of  the  other. 

If  we  will  admit  time  into  our  thoughts  at 
all,  the  mythologies,  those  vestiges  of  ancient 
poems,  wrecks  of  poems,  so  to  speak,  the  world's 
inheritance,  still  reflecting  some  of  their  origi 
nal  splendor,  like  the  fragments  of  clouds  tinted 
by  the  rays  of  the  departed  sun ;  reaching  into 
the  latest  summer  day,  and  allying  this  hour  to 
the  morning  of  creation ;  as  the  poet  sings :  — 

"  Fragments  of  the  lofty  strain 

Float  down  the  tide  of  years, 

As  buoyant  on  the  stormy  main 

A  parted  wreck  appears,  —  " 

these  are  the  materials  and  hints  for  a  history 
t£  the  rise  and  progress  of  the  race;  how,  from 
the  condition  of  ants,  it  arrived  at  the  condition 
of  men,  and  arts  were  gradually  invented.  Let 
it  thousand  surmises  shed  some  light  on  this 
story.  We  will  not  be  confined  by  historical, 


206  A   WEEK 

even  geological  periods  which  would  allow  us  to 
doubt  of  a  progress  in  human  affairs.  If  we 
rise  above  this  wisdom  for  the  day,  we  shall  ex 
pect  that  this  morning  of  the  race,  in  which  it 
has  been  supplied  with  the  simplest  necessaries, 
with  corn,  and  wine,  and  honey,  and  oil,  and 
fire,  and  articulate  speech,  and  agricultural  and 
other  arts,  reared  up  by  degrees  from  the  condi 
tion  of  ants  to  men,  will  be  succeeded  by  a  day 
of  equally  progressive  splendor;  that,  in  the 
lapse  of  the  divine  periods,  other  divine  agents 
and  godlike  men  will  assist  to  elevate  the  race 
as  much  above  its  present  condition. 
But  we  do  not  know  much  about  it. 

Thus  did  one  voyageur  waking  dream,  while 
his  companion  slumbered  on  the  bank.  Sud 
denly  a  boatman's  horn  was  heard  echoing  from 
shore  to  shore,  to  give  notice  of  his  approach  to 
the  farmer's  wife  with  whom  he  was  to  take  his 
dinner,  though  in  that  place  only  muskrats  and 
kingfishers  seemed  to  hear.  The  current  of  our 
reflections  and  our  slumbers  being  thus  dis* 
turbed,  we  weighed  anchor  once  more. 

As  we  proceeded  on  our  way  in  the  afternoon, 
the  western  bank  became  lower,  or  receded 
farther  from  the  channel  in  some  places,  leaving 
a  few  trees  only  to  fringe  the  water's  edge; 
while  the  eastern  rose  abruptly  here  and  there 


MONDA  Y  207 

into  wooded  hills  fifty  or  sixty  feet  high.  The 
bass  (Tilia  Americana),  also  called  the  lime  or 
linden,  which  was  a  new  tree  to  us,  overhung 
the  water  with  its  broad  and  rounded  leaf,  in 
terspersed  with  clusters  of  small  hard  berries 
now  nearly  ripe,  and  made  an  agreeable  shade 
for  us  sailors.  The  inner  bark  of  this  genus  is 
the  bast,  the  material  of  the  fisherman's  matting, 
and  the  ropes  and  peasant's  shoes  of  which  the 
Russians  make  so  much  use,  and  also  of  nets 
and  a  coarse  cloth  in  some  places.  According 
to  poets,  this  was  once  Philyra,  one  of  the 
Oceanides.  The  ancients  are  said  to  have  used 
its  bark  for  the  roofs  of  cottages,  for  baskets, 
and  for  a  kind  of  paper  called  Philyra.  They 
also  made  bucklers  of  its  wood,  "on  account 
of  its  flexibility,  lightness,  and  resiliency."  It 
was  once  much  used  for  carving,  and  is  still  in 
demand  for  sounding-boards  of  piano-fortes  and 
panels  of  carriages,  and  for  various  uses  for 
which  toughness  and  flexibility  are  required. 
Baskets  and  cradles  are  made  of  the  twigs.  Its 
sap  affords  sugar,  and  the  honey  made  from  its 
flowers  is  said  to  be  preferred  to  any  other. 
Its  leaves  are  in  some  countries  given  to  cattle, 
a  kind  of  chocolate  has  been  made  of  its  fruit,  a 
medicine  has  been  prepared  from  an  infusion  of 
its  flowers,  and  finally,  the  charcoal  made  of  its 
wood  is  greatly  valued  for  gunpowder. 


208  A  WEEK 

The  sight  of  this  tree  reminded  us  that  we 
had  reached  a  strange  land  to  us.  As  we  sailed 
under  this  canopy  of  leaves,  we  saw  the  sky 
through  its  chinks,  and,  as  it  were,  the  meaning 
and  idea  of  the  tree  stamped  in  a  thousand 
hieroglyphics  on  the  heavens.  The  universe  is 
so  aptly  fitted  to  our  organization  that  the  eye 
wanders  and  reposes  at  the  same  time.  On 
every  side  there  is  something  to  soothe  and  re 
fresh  this  sense.  Look  up  at  the  tree-tops,  and 
see  how  finely  Nature  finishes  off  her  work 
there.  See  how  the  pines  spire  without  end 
higher  and  higher,  and  make  a  graceful  fringe 
to  the  earth.  And  who  shall  count  the  finer 
cobwebs  that  soar  and  float  away  from  their 
utmost  tops,  and  the  myriad  insects  that  dodge 
between  them.  Leaves  are  of  more  various 
forms  than  the  alphabets  of  all  languages  put 
together ;  of  the  oaks  alone  there  are  hardly  two 
alike,  and  each  expresses  its  own  character. 

In  all  her  products,  Nature  only  develops  her 
simplest  germs.  One  would  say  that  it  was  no 
great  stretch  of  invention  to  create  birds.  The 
hawk,  which  now  takes  his  flight  over  the  top 
of  the  wood,  was  at  first,  perchance,  only  a  leaf 
which  fluttered  in  its  aisles.  From  rustling 
leaves  she  came  in  the  course  of  ages  to  the 
loftier  flight  and  clear  carol  of  the  bird. 

Salmon  Brook  comes  in  from  the  west  under 


MONDAY  209 

the  railroad,  a  mile  and  a  half  below  the  village 
of  Nashua.  We  rowed  up  far  enough  into  the 
meadows  which  border  it  to  learn  its  piscatorial 
history  from  a  haymaker  on  its  banks.  He  told 
us  that  the  silver  eel  was  formerly  abundant 
here,  and  pointed  to  some  sunken  creels  at  its 
mouth.  This  man's  memory  and  imagination 
were  fertile  in  fishermen's  tales  of  floating  isles 
in  bottomless  ponds,  and  of  lakes  mysteriously 
stocked  with  fishes,  and  would  have  kept  us  till 
nightfall  to  listen,  but  we  could  not  afford  to 
loiter  in  this  roadstead,  and  so  stood  out  to  our 
sea  again.  Though  we  never  trod  in  those 
meadows,  but  only  touched  their  margin  with 
our  hands,  we  still  retain  a  pleasant  memory  of 
them. 

Salmon  Brook,  whose  name  is  said  to  be  a 
translation  from  the  Indian,  was  a  favorite 
haunt  of  the  aborigines.  Here,  too,  the  first 
white  settlers  of  Nashua  planted,  and  some 
dents  in  the  earth  where  their  houses  stood  and 
the  wrecks  of  ancient  apple-trees  are  still  visi 
ble.  About  one  mile  up  this  stream  stood  the 
house  of  old  John  Lovewell,  who  was  an  ensign 
in  the  army  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  and  the  father 
of  "famous  Captain  Lovewell."  He  settled 
here  before  1690,  and  died  about  1754,  at  the 
age  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  years.  He  is 
thought  to  have  been  engaged  in  the  famous 


210  A  WEEK 

Narragansett  swamp  fight,  which  took  place  in 
1675,  before  he  came  here.  The  Indians  are 
said  to  have  spared  him  in  succeeding  wars  on 
account  of  his  kindness  to  them.  Even  in  1700 
he  was  so  old  and  gray-headed  that  his  scalp 
was  worth  nothing,  since  the  French  governor 
offered  no  bounty  for  such.  I  have  stood  in 
ihe  dent  of  his  cellar  on  the  bank  of  the  brook, 
and  talked  there  with  one  whose  grandfather 
had,  whose  father  might  have,  talked  with 
Lovewell.  Here  also  he  had  a  mill  in  his  old 
age,  and  kept  a  small  store.  He  was  remem 
bered  by  some  who  were  recently  living,  as  a 
hale  old  man  who  drove  the  boys  out  of  his  or 
chard  with  his  cane.  Consider  the  triumphs  of 
the  mortal  man,  and  what  poor  trophies  it  would 
have  to  show,  to  wit:  He  cobbled  shoes  with 
out  glasses  at  a  hundred,  and  cut  a  handsome 
swath  at  a  hundred  and  five!  LovewelTs  house 
is  said  to  have  been  the  first  which  Mrs.  Dustan 
reached  on  her  escape  from  the  Indians.  Here, 
probably,  the  hero  of  Pequawket  was  born  and 
bred.  Close  by  may  be  seen  the  cellar  and  the 
gravestone  of  Joseph  Hassell,  who,  as  is  else 
where  recorded,  with  his  wife  Anna,  and  son 
Benjamin,  and  Mary  Marks,  "were  slain  by 
our  Indian  enemies  on  September  2,  [1691,] 
in  the  evening."  As  Gookin  observed  on  a 
previous  ocasiou,  "The  Indian  rod  upon  the 


MONDAY  211 

English  backs  had  not  yet  done  God's  errand." 
Salmon  Brook  near  its  mouth  is  still  a  solitary 
stream,  meandering  through  woods  and  mea 
dows,  while  the  then  uninhabited  mouth  of  the 
Nashua  now  resounds  with  the  din  of  a  manu 
facturing  town. 

A  stream  from  Otternic  Pond  in  Hudson 
comes  in  just  above  Salmon  Brook,  on  the  op 
posite  side.  There  was  a  good  view  of  Uncan- 
nunuc,  the  most  conspicuous  mountain  in  these 
parts,  from  the  bank  here,  seen  rising  over  the 
west  end  of  the  bridge  above.  We  soon  after 
passed  the  village  of  Nashua,  on  the  river  of 
the  same  name,  where  there  is  a  covered  bridge 
over  the  Merrimack.  The  Nashua,  which  is 
one  of  the  largest  tributaries,  flows  from  Wa- 
chusett  Mountain,  through  Lancaster,  Groton, 
and  other  towns,  where  it  has  formed  well- 
known  elm-shaded  meadows,  but  near  its  mouth 
it  is  obstructed  by  falls  and  factories,  and  did 
not  tempt  us  to  explore  it. 

Far  away  from  here,  in  Lancaster,  with  an 
other  companion,  I  have  crossed  the  broad  val 
ley  of  the  Nashua,  over  which  we  had  so  long 
looked  westward  from  the  Concord  hills  without 
seeing  it  to  the  blue  mountains  in  the  horizon. 
So  many  streams,  so  many  meadows  and  woods 
and  quiet  dwellings  of  men  had  lain  concealed 
between  us  and  those  Delectable  Mountains; 


212  A   WEEK 

—  from  yonder  hill  on  the  road  to  Tyngsbor- 
ough  you  may  get  a  good  view  of  them.  There 
where  it  seemed  uninterrupted  forest  to  our 
youthful  eyes,  between  two  neighboring  pines 
in  the  horizon,  lay  the  valley  of  the  Nashua, 
and  this  very  stream  was  even  then  winding  at 
its  bottom,  and  then,  as  now,  it  was  here  si 
lently  mingling  its  waters  with  the  Merrimack. 
The  clouds  which  floated  over  its  meadows  and 
were  born  there,  seen  far  in  the  west,  gilded 
by  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  had  adorned  a 
thousand  evening  skies  for  us.  But  as  it  were, 
by  a  turf  wall  this  valley  was  concealed,  and  in 
our  journey  to  those  hills  it  was  first  gradually 
revealed  to  us.  Summer  and  winter  our  eyes 
had  rested  on  the  dim  outline  of  the  mountains, 
to  which  distance  and  indistinctness  lent  a  gran 
deur  not  their  own,  so  that  they  served  to  inter 
pret  all  the  allusions  of  poets  and  travelers. 
Standing  on  the  Concord  Cliffs,  we  thus  spoke 
our  mind  to  them :  — 

With  frontier  strength  ye  stand  your  ground, 

With  grand  content  ye  circle  round, 

Tumultuous  silence  for  all  sound, 

Ye  distant  nursery  of  rills, 

Monadnock  and  the  Peterborough  Hills  ;  — 

Finn  argument  that  never  stirs, 

Outcircling  the  philosophers,  — 

Like  some  vast  fleet, 

Sailing  through  rain  and  sleet, 

Through  winter's  cold  and  summer's  heat; 


MONDAY  218 

Still  holding  on  upon  your  high  emprise, 

Until  ye  find  a  shore  amid  the  skies ; 

Not  skulking  close  to  laud, 

With  cargo  contraband, 

For  they  who  sent  a  venture  out  by  ye 

Have  set  the  Sun  to  see 

Their  honesty. 

Ships  of  the  line,  each  one, 

Ye  westward  run, 

Convoying  clouds, 

Which  cluster  in  your  shrouds, 

Always  before  the  gale, 

Under  a  press  of  sail, 

With  weight  of  metal  all  untold,  — 

I  seem  to  feel  ye  in  my  firm  seat  here, 

Immeasurable  depth  of  hold, 

And  breadth  of  beam,  and  length  of  running  gear. 

Methinks  ye  take  luxurious  pleasure 

In  your  novel  western  leisure  ; 

So  cool  your  brows  and  freshly  blue, 

As  Time  had  naught  for  ye  to  do ; 

For  ye  lie  at  your  length, 

An  unappropriated  strength, 

Unhewn  primeval  timber, 

For  knees  so  stiff,  for  masts  so  limber ; 

The  stock  of  which  new  earths  are  made, 

One  day  to  be  our  western  trade, 

Fit  for  the  stanchions  of  a  world 

Which  through  the  seas  of  space  is  hurled. 

While  we  enjoy  a  lingering  ray, 
Ye  still  o'ertop  the  western  day, 
Reposing  yonder  on  God's  croft 
Like  solid  stacks  of  hay ; 
So  bold  a  line  as  ne'er  was  writ 
On  any  page  by  human  wit ; 


214  A   WEEK 

The  forest  glows  as  if 

An  enemy's  camp-fires  shone 

Along  the  horizon, 

Or  the  day's  funeral  pyre 

Were  lighted  there  ; 

Edged  with  silver  and  with  gold, 

The  clouds  hang  o'er  in  damask  fold, 

And  with  such  depth  of  amber  light 

The  west  is  dight, 

Where  still  a  few  rays  slant, 

That  even  Heaven  seems  extravagant. 

Watatic  Hill 

Lies  on  the  horizon's  sill 

Like  a  child's  toy  left  overnight, 

And  other  duds  to  left  and  right, 

On  the  earth's  edge,  mountains  and  trees 

Stand  as  they  were  on  air  graven, 

Or  as  the  vessels  in  a  haven 

Await  the  morning  breeze. 

I  fancy  even 

Through  your  denies  windeth  the  way  to  heaven ; 

And  yonder  still,  in  spite  of  history's  page, 

Linger  the  golden  and  the  silver  age  ; 

Upon  the  laboring  gale 

The  news  of  future  centuries  is  brought, 

And  of  new  dynasties  of  thought, 

From  your  remotest  vale. 

But  special  I  remember  thee, 

Wachusett,  who  like  me 

Standest  alone  without,  society. 

Thy  far  blue  eye, 

A  remnant  of  the  sky, 

Seen  through  the  clearing  or  the  gorge, 

Or  from  the  windows  of  the  forge, 

Doth  leaven  all  it  passes  by. 

Nothing  is  true 


MONDAY  215 

But  stands  'tween  me  and  you, 

Thou  western  pioneer, 

Who  know'st  not  shame  nor  fear, 

By  venturous  spirit  driven 

Under  the  eaves  of  heaven  ; 

And  canst  expand  thee  there, 

And  breathe  enough  of  air  ? 

Even  beyond  the  West 

Thou  migratest, 

Into  unclouded  tracts, 

Without  a  pilgrim's  axe, 

Cleaving  thy  road  on  high 

With  thy  well-tempered  brow, 

And  mak'st  thyself  a  clearing  in  the  sky. 

Upholding  heaven,  holding  down  earth, 

Thy  pastime  from  thy  birth  ; 

Not  steadied  by  the  one,  nor  leaning  on  the  other, 

May  I  approve  myself  thy  worthy  brother ! 

At  length,  like  Rasselas  and  other  inhabitants 
of  happy  valleys,  we  had  resolved  to  scale  the 
blue  wall  which  bounded  the  western  horizon, 
though  not  without  misgivings  that  thereafter 
no  visible  fairy-land  would  exist  for  us.  But 
it  would  be  long  to  tell  of  our  adventures,  and 
we  have  no  time  this  afternoon,  transporting 
ourselves  in  imagination  up  this  hazy  Nashua 
valley,  to  go  over  again  that  pilgrimage.  We 
have  since  made  many  similar  excursions  to  the 
principal  mountains  of  New  England  and  New 
York,  and  even  far  in  the  wilderness,  and  have 
passed  a  night  on  the  summit  of  many  of  them. 
And  now,  when  we  look  again  westward  from 


216  A   WEEK 

our  native  hills,  Wachusett  and  Monadnocb 
have  retreated  once  more  among  the  blue  and 
fabulous  mountains  in  the  horizon,  though  our 
eyes  rest  on  the  very  rocks  on  both  of  them, 
where  we  have  pitched  our  tent  for  a  night,  and 
boiled  our  hasty-pudding  amid  the  clouds. 

As  late  as  1724  there  was  no  house  on  the 
north  side  of  the  Nashua,  but  only  scattered 
wigwams  and  grisly  forests  between  this  fron 
tier  and  Canada.  In  September  of  that  year, 
two  men  who  were  engaged  in  making  turpen 
tine  on  that  side,  for  such  were  the  first  enter 
prises  in  the  wilderness,  were  taken  captive  and 
carried  to  Canada  by  a  party  of  thirty  Indians. 
Ten  of  the  inhabitants  of  Dunstable,  going  to 
look  for  them,  found  the  hoops  of  their  barrel 
cut,  and  the  turpentine  spread  on  the  ground. 
I  have  been  told  by  an  inhabitant  of  Tyngsbor- 
ough,  who  had  the  story  from  his  ancestors, 
that  one  of  these  captives,  when  the  Indians 
were  about  to  upset  his  barrel  of  turpentine, 
seized  a  pine  knot  and,  flourishing  it,  swore  so 
resolutely  that  he  would  kill  the  first  who 
touched  it,  that  they  refrained,  and  when  at 
length  he  returned  from  Canada  he  found  it 
still  standing.  Perhaps  there  was  more  than 
one  barrel.  However  this  may  have  been,  the 
scouts  knew  by  marks  on  the  trees,  made  with 


MONDAY  21T 

coal  mixed  with  grease,  that  the  men  were  not 
killed,  but  taken  prisoners.  One  of  the  com 
pany,  named  Farwell,  perceiving  that  the  tur 
pentine  had  not  done  spreading,  concluded  that 
the  Indians  had  been  gone  but  a  short  time,  and 
they  accordingly  went  in  instant  pursuit.  Con 
trary  to  the  advice  of  Farwell,  following  di 
rectly  on  their  trail  up  the  Merrimack,  they  fell 
into  an  ambuscade  near  Thornton's  Ferry,  in 
the  present  town  of  Merrimack,  and  nine  were 
killed,  only  one,  Farwell,  escaping  after  a  vig 
orous  pursuit.  The  men  of  Dunstable  went  out 
and  picked  up  their  bodies,  and  carried  them 
all  down  to  Dunstable  and  buried  them.  It  is 
almost  word  for  word  as  in  the  Robin  Hood 
ballad:  — 

"  They  carried  these  foresters  into  fair  Nottingham, 

As  many  there  did  know, 
They  digged  them  graves  in  their  churchyard, 
And  they  buried  them  all  a-row." 

Nottingham  is  only  the  other  side  of  the  river, 
and  they  were  not  exactly  all  a-row.  You  may 
read  in  the  churchyard  at  Dunstable,  under  the 
"Memento  Mori,"  and  the  name  of  one  of  them, 
how  they  "departed  this  life,"  and 

"  This  man  with  seven  more  that  lies  in 

this  grave  was  slew  all  in  a  day  by 

the  Indians." 

The  stones  of  some  others  of  the  company  stand 


218  A   WEEK 

around  the  common  grave  with  their  separate 
inscriptions.  Eight  were  buried  here,  but  nine 
were  killed,  according  to  the  best  authorities. 

"  Gentle  river,  gentle  river, 

Lo,  thy  streams  are  stained  with  gore, 
Many  a  brave  and  noble  captain 
Floats  along  thy  willowed  shore. 

"  All  beside  thy  limpid  waters, 

All  beside  thy  sands  so  bright, 
Indian  Chiefs  and  Christian  warriors 
Joined  in  fierce  and  mortal  fight." 

It  is  related  in  the  History  of  Dunstable,  that 
on  the  return  of  Farwell  the  Indians  were  en 
gaged  by  a  fresh  party,  which  they  compelled  to 
retreat,  and  pursued  as  far  as  the  Nashua,  where 
they  fought  across  the  stream  at  its  mouth. 
After  the  departure  of  the  Indians,  the  figure 
of  an  Indian's  head  was  found  carved  by  them 
on  a  large  tree  by  the  shore,  which  circumstance 
has  given  its  name  to  this  part  of  the  village  of 
Nashville,  —  the  "Indian  Head."  "It  was  ob 
served  by  some  judicious,"  says  Gookin,  refer 
ring  to  Philip's  war,  "that  at  the  beginning  of 
the  war  the  English  soldiers  made  a  nothing 
of  the  Indians,  and  many  spake  words  to  this 
effect,  that  one  Englishman  was  sufficient  to 
chase  ten  Indians;  many  reckoned  it  was  no 
other  but  Fern,  vidi,  vici."  But  we  may  con 
clude  that  the  judicious  would  by  this  time  have 
made  a  different  observation. 


MONDAY  219 

Farwell  appears  to  have  been  the  only  one 
who  had  studied  his  profession,  and  understood 
the  business  of  hunting  Indians.  He  lived  to 
fight  another  day,  for  the  next  year  he  was 
Love  well's  lieutenant  at  Pequawket,  but  that 
time,  as  we  have  related,  he  left  his  bones  in  the 
wilderness.  His  name  still  reminds  us  of  twi 
light  days  and  forest  scouts  on  Indian  trails, 
with  an  uneasy  scalp ;  —  an  indispensable  hero 
to  New  England.  As  the  more  recent  poet  of 
Love welF  s  fight  has  sung,  halting  a  little  but 
bravely  still,  — 

41  Then  did  the  crimson  streams  that  flowed 

Seem  like  the  waters  of  the  brook, 
That  brightly  shine,  that  loudly  dash, 
Far  down  the  cliffs  of  Agiochook," 

These  battles  sound  incredible  to  us.  I  think 
that  posterity  will  doubt  if  such  things  ever 
were ;  if  our  bold  ancestors  who  settled  this  land 
were  not  struggling  rather  with  the  forest  shad 
ows,  and  not  with  a  copper-colored  race  of  men. 
They  were  vapors,  fever  and  ague  of  the  un 
settled  woods.  Now,  only  a  few  arrow-heads 
are  turned  up  by  the  plough.  In  the  Pelasgic, 
the  Etruscan,  or  the  British  story,  there  is  no 
thing  so  shadowy  and  unreal. 

It  is  a  wild  and  antiquated  looking  graveyard, 
overgrown  with  bushes,  on  the  high-road,  about 


220  A   WEEK 

a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  and  overlooking  the 
Merrimack,  with  a  deserted  mill-stream  bound 
ing  it  on  one  side,  where  lie  the  earthly  remains 
of  the  ancient  inhabitants  of  Dunstable.  We 
passed  it  three  or  four  miles  below  here.  You 
may  read  there  the  names  of  Lovewell,  Farwell, 
and  many  others  whose  families  were  distin 
guished  in  Indian  warfare.  We  noticed  there 
two  large  masses  of  granite  more  than  a  foot 
thick  and  rudely  squared,  lying  flat  on  the 
ground  over  the  remains  of  the  first  pastor  and 
his  wife. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  dead  lie  everywhere 
under  stones,  — 

"  Strata  jacent  passim  suo  quseque  sub  "  lapide  — 

corpora,  we  might  say,  if  the  measure  allowed. 
When  the  stone  is  a  slight  one,  it  does  not 
oppress  the  spirits  of  the  traveler  to  meditate 
by  it ;  but  these  did  seem  a  little  heathenish  to 
us;  and  so  are  all  large  monuments  over  men's 
bodies,  from  the  pyramids  down.  A  monument 
should  at  least  be  "star-y-pointing,"  to  indicate 
whither  the  spirit  is  gone,  and  not  prostrate, 
like  the  body  it  has  deserted.  There  have  been 
some  nations  who  could  do  nothing  but  con 
struct  tombs,  and  these  are  the  only  traces  which 
they  have  left.  They  are  the  heathen.  But 
why  these  stones,  so  upright  and  emphatic,  like 


MONDAY  221 

exclamation -points?  What  was  there  so  re 
markable  that  lived?  Why  should  the  monu 
ment  be  so  much  more  enduring  than  the  fame 
which  it  is  designed  to  perpetuate,  —  a  stone  to 
a  bone?  "Here  lies,"  —  "Here  lies;  "  —  why 
do  they  not  sometimes  write,  There  rises?  Is  it 
a  monument  to  the  body  only  that  is  intended? 
"Having  reached  the  term  of  his  natural  life; " 
—  would  it  not  be  truer  to  say,  Having  reached 
the  term  of  his  unnatural  life?  The  rarest 
quality  in  an  epitaph  is  truth.  If  any  character 
is  given,  it  should  be  as  severely  true  as  the 
decision  of  the  three  judges  below,  and  not  the 
partial  testimony  of  friends.  Friends  and  con 
temporaries  should  supply  only  the  name  and 
date,  and  leave  it  to  posterity  to  write  the  epi 
taph. 

Here  lies  an  honest  man, 
Rear-Admiral  Van. 

Faith,  then  ye  have 

Two  in  one  grave, 

For  in  his  favor, 

Here  too  lies  the  Engraver. 

Fame  itself  is  but  an  epitaph;  as  late,  as  false, 
as  true.  But  they  only  are  the  true  epitaphs 
which  Old  Mortality  retouches. 

A  man  might  well  pray  that  he  may  not  taboo 
or  curse  any  portion  of  nature  by  being  buried 
in  it.  For  the  most  part,  the  best  man's  spirit 


222  A  WEEK 

makes  a  fearful  sprite  to  haunt  his  grave,  and 
it  is  therefore  much  to  the  credit  of  Little  John, 
the  famous  follower  of  Robin  Hood,  and  reflect 
ing  favorably  on  his  character,  that  his  grave 
was  "long  celebrous  for  the  yielding  of  excel 
lent  whetstones."  I  confess  that  I  have  but 
little  love  for  such  collections  as  they  have  at 
the  Catacombs,  Pere  la  Chaise,  Mount  Auburn, 
and  even  this  Dunstable  graveyard.  At  any 
rate,  nothing  but  great  antiquity  can  make 
graveyards  interesting  to  me.  I  have  no  friends 
there.  It  may  be  that  I  am  not  competent  to 
write  the  poetry  of  the  grave.  The  farmer  who 
has  skimmed  his  farm  might  perchance  leave 
his  body  to  Nature  to  be  ploughed  in,  and  in 
some  measure  restore  its  fertility.  We  should 
not  retard  but  forward  her  economies. 

Soon  the  village  of  Nashua  was  out  of  sight, 
and  the  woods  were  gained  again,  and  we  rowed 
slowly  on  before  sunset,  looking  for  a  solitary 
place  in  which  to  spend  the  night.  A  few 
evening  clouds  began  to  be  reflected  in  the 
water,  and  the  surface  was  dimpled  only  here 
and  there  by  a  muskrat  crossing  the  stream. 
We  camped  at  length  near  Penichook  Brook,  on 
the  confines  of  what  is  now  Nashville,  by  a  deep 
ravine,  under  the  skirts  of  a  pine  wood,  where 
the  dead  pine-leaves  were  our  carpet,  and  their 
tawny  boughs  stretched  overhead.  But  fire  and 


MONDA  Y  223 

smoke  soon  tamed  the  scene;  the  rocks  con 
sented  to  be  our  walls,  and  the  pines  our  roof. 
A  woodside  was  already  the  fittest  locality  for  us. 

The  wilderness  is  near  as  well  as  dear  to 
every  man.  Even  the  oldest  villages  are  in 
debted  to  the  border  of  wild  wood  which  sur 
rounds  them,  more  than  to  the  gardens  of  men. 
There  is  something  indescribably  inspiriting  and 
beautiful  in  the  aspect  of  the  forest  skirting  and 
occasionally  jutting  into  the  midst  of  new 
towns,  which,  like  the  sand-heaps  of  fresh  fox- 
burrows,  have  sprung  up  in  their  midst.  The 
very  uprightness  of  the  pines  and  maples  asserts 
the  ancient  rectitude  and  vigor  of  nature.  Our 
lives  need  the  relief  of  such  a  background, 
where  the  pine  flourishes  and  the  jay  still 
screams. 

We  had  found  a  safe  harbor  for  our  boat, 
and  as  the  sun  was  setting  carried  up  our 
furniture,  and  soon  arranged  our  house  upon 
the  bank,  and  while  the  kettle  steamed  at  the 
tent  door,  we  chatted  of  distant  friends  and  of 
the  sights  which  we  were  to  behold,  and  won 
dered  which  way  the  towns  lay  from  us.  Our 
cocoa  was  soon  boiled,  and  supper  set  upon 
our  chest,  and  we  lengthened  out  this  meal,  like 
old  voyageurs,  with  our  talk.  Meanwhile  we 
spread  the  map  on  the  ground,  and  read  in  the 
Gazetteer  when  the  first  settlers  came  here  and 


224  A  WEEK 

got  a  township  granted.  Then,  when  suppei 
was  done  and  we  had  written  the  journal  of  our 
voyage,  we  wrapped  our  buffaloes  about  us  and 
lay  down  with  our  heads  pillowed  on  our  arms, 
listening  awhile  to  the  distant  baying  of  a  dog, 
or  the  murmurs  of  the  river,  or  to  the  windf 
which  had  not  gone  to  rest :  — 

The  western  wind  came  lumbering  in, 
Bearing  a  faint  Pacific  din, 
Our  evening  mail,  swift  at  the  call 
Of  its  Postmaster-General  ; 
Laden  with  news  from  Calif orn', 
Whate'er  transpired  hath  since  morn, 
How  wags  the  world  by  brier  and  brake 
From  hence  to  Athabasca  Lake  ;  — 

or  half  awake  and  half  asleep,  dreaming  of  a 
star  which  glimmered  through  our  cotton  roof. 
Perhaps  at  midnight  one  was  awakened  by  a 
cricket  shrilly  singing  on  his  shoulder,  or  by  a 
hunting  spider  in  his  eye,  and  was  lulled  asleep 
again  by  some  streamlet  purling  its  way  along 
at  the  bottom  of  a  wooded  and  rocky  ravine  in 
our  neighborhood.  It  was  pleasant  to  lie  with 
our  heads  so  low  in  the  grass,  and  hear  what  a 
tinkling  ever-busy  laboratory  it  was.  A  thou 
sand  little/artisans  vbeat  on  their  anvils  all  night 
long. 

Far  in  the  night,  as  we  were  falling  asleep  on 
the  bank  of  the  Merrimack,  we  heard  some  tyro 
beating  a  drum  incessantly,  in  preparation  fo* 


MONDAY  225 

a  country  muster,  as  we  learned,  and  we  thought 
of  the  line,  — 

"  When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night." 

We  could  have  assured  him  that  his  beat  would 
be  answered,  and  the  forces  be  mustered.  Fear, 
not,  thou  drummer  of  the  night,  we  too  will  be 

:  there.  And  still  he  drummed  on  in  the  silence 
and  the  dark.  This  stray  sound  from  a  far-off 
sphere  came  to  our  ears  from  time  to  time,  far, 
sweet,  and  significant,  and  we  listened  with 
such  an  unprejudiced  sense  as  if  for,  the  first 
time  we  heard  at  all.  No  doubt  he  was  an 
insignificant  drummer  enough,  but  his  music 
afforded  us  a  prime  and  leisure  hour,  and  we 
felt  that  we  were  in  season  wholly.  These  sim 
ple  sounds  related  us  to  the  stars.  Ay,  there 
was  adx)gic)in  them  so  convincing  that  the  com- 

Jjined  sense  of  mankinc^^could  never  makejna. 

_4oui?t  their  oonfilusiona.     I    stop    my  habitual 

thinking,  ^a^Jfjbheplough  had  suddenly  run 

^deeper.,  in  its  furrow  through  the  "crust  of  the 

jworld.  How  can  I  go  on,  who  have  just  stepped 
over  such  a  bottomless  skylight  in  the  bog  of 
my  life  ?  Suddenly  old  Time  winked  at  me,  — 
Ah,  you  know  me,  you  rogue,  —  and  news  had 
come  that  IT  was  well.  That  ancient  universe 
is  in  such  capital  health,t_I_thjnk 


will  never  die,     ffeal  yourselves,  doctors;  by 


226  A  WEEK 

Then  idle  Time  ran  gadding  by 
And  left  me  with  Eternity  alone ; 

I  hear  beyond  the  range  of  sound, 

I  see  beyond  the  verge  of  sight,  — 

I  see,  smell,  taste,  hear,  feel,  that  everlasting 
Something  to  which  we  are  allied,  at  once  our 
maker,  our  abode,  our  destiny,  our  very  Selves ; 

rthlTone  historic  truth,]  the  most  remarkable  fact 
which  can  become  the  distinct  and  uninvited 
subject  of  our  thought,  the  actual  glory  of  the 
universe;  the_only  factwhich  a  hiunan^being 

^cannot  avojdjrecognizing,  or  m  some  way  forget 
or  dispense  with. 

It  doth  expand  my  privacies 
To  all,  and  leave  me  single  in  the  crowd. 

I  have  seen  how  the  foundations  of  the  world 
are  laid,  and  I  have  not  the  least  doubt  that  it 
will  stand  a  good  while. 

Now  chiefly  is  my  nataHiour, 

And  only  now  my  prime  of  life. 

J[  wIU_iwtfudfliib.t_the  love  untold, 

Which  not  my  worth  nor  want  hath  bought, 

Which  wooed  me  young  and  wooes  me  old, 

And  to  this  evening  hath  me  brought. 

What  are  ears?  what  is  Time?  that  this  par 
ticular  series  of  sounds  called  a  strain  of  music, 
an  invisible  and  fairy  troop  which  never  brushed 
the  dew  from  any  mead,  can  be  wafted  down 
through  the  centuries  from  Homer  to  me,  and 
he  have  been  conversant  with  that  same  aerial 


MONDAY  227 

and  mysterious  charm  which  now  so  tingles  my 
ears  ?  What  a  fine  communication  from  age  to 
age,  of  the  fairest  and  noblest  thoughts,  the 
aspirations  of  ancient  men,  even  such  as  were 
never  communicated  by  speech,  is  music !  It  is 
the  flower  of  language,  thought  colored  and 
curved,  fluent  and  flexible,  its  crystal  fountain 
tinged  with  the  sun's  rays,  and  its  purling  rip 
ples  reflecting  the  grass  and  the  clouds.  A 
strain  of  music  reminds  me  of  a  passage  of  the 
Vedas,  and  I  associate  with  it  the  idea  of  infi 
nite  remoteness,  as  well  as  of  beauty  and  seren 
ity,  for  to  the  senses  that  is  fetl]y^frmn_ii3^ 
whicji_^ddrfiaafia_the  greatest  depth  within  us. 
It  teaches  us  again  and  again  to  trust  the  re 
motest  and^  finestas  the  divinest  instinct,  and 
makes  t  a  dream  our  only  real  experience^  We 
feel  yJTsad  cheer/Vhen  we  hear  it,  perchance  be 
cause  we  that  hear  are  not  one  with  that  which 
is  heard. 

Therefore  a  torrent  of  sadness  deep 

Through  the  strains  of  thy  triumph  is  heard  to  sweep. 

The  sadness  is  ours.  The  Indian  poet  CalidaS 
says  in  the  Sacontala:  "Perhaps  the  sadness  of 
men  on  seeing  beautiful  forms  and  hearing 
sweet  music  arises  from  some  faint  remembrance 
of  past  joys,  and  the  traces  of  connections  in  a 
former  state  of  existence."  As  polishing  ex 
presses  the  vein  in  marble,  and  grain  in  wood, 


228  A   WEEK 

so  music  brings  out  what  of  heroic  lurks  any 
where.  ThfrJiero  isL-thfiuaple  patron  of  music. 

«^ ^^  ^^^ 4  _ — 

That  harmony  which  exists  naturally  between 
the  hero's  moods  and  the  universe,  the  soldier 
would  fain  imitate  with  drum  and  trumpet. 
When  we  are  in  health,  all  sounds  fife  and  drum 
for  us ;  we  hear  the  notes  of  music  in  the  air,  or 
catch  its  echoes  dying  away  when  we  awake  in 
the  dawn.  MarchingJ^  :vdieii^he--pulse  of  the 
hero  beats jn  iinis£n_wi^  Nature? — 

and  he  steps  to  the  measure  of  the  universe; 
then  there  is  true  courage  and  invincible 
strength,^ 


Plutarch  says  that  "Plato  thinks  the  gods 
never  gave  men  music,  the  science  of  melody 
and  harmony,  for  mere  delectation  or  to  tickle 
the  ear;  but  that  the  discordant  parts  of  the 
circulations  and  beauteous  fabric  of  the  soul, 
and  that  of  it  that  roves  about  the  body,  and 
many  times,  for  want  of  tune  and  air,  breaks 
forth  into  many  extravagances  and  excesses, 
might  be  sweetly  recalled  and  artfully  wound 
up  to  their  former  consent  and  agreement." 

Music  is  the  sound  of  the  universal  laws 
promulgated.  It  is  the  only  assured  tone. 
There  are  in  it  such  strains  as  far  surpass  any 
man's  faith  in  the  loftiness  of  his  destiny. 
Things  are  to  be  learned  which  it  will  be  worth 
the  while  to  learn.  Formerly  I  heard  these 


MONDA  Y  229 

RUMORS  FROM  AN  AEOLIAN  HARP. 

There  is  a  vale  which  none  hath  seen, 
Where  foot  of  man  has  never  been, 
Such  as  here  lives  with  toil  and  strife, 
An  anxious  and  a  sinful  life. 

There  every  virtue  has  its  birth, 
Ere  it  descends  upon  the  earth, 
And  thither  every  deed  returns, 
Which  in  the  generous  bosom  burns. 

There  love  is  warm,  and  youth  is  young, 
And  poetry  is  yet  unsung, 
For  Virtue  still  adventures  there, 
And  freely  breathes  her  native  air. 

And  ever,  if  you  hearken  well, 
You  still  may  hear  its  vesper  bell, 
And  tread  of  high-souled  men  go  by, 
Their  thoughts  conversing  with  the  sky. 

According  to  Jamblichus,  "Pythagoras  did 
not  procure  for  himself  a  thing  of  this  kind 
through  instruments  or  the  voice,  but  employing 
a  certain  ineffable  divinity,  and  which  it  is  diffi 
cult  to  apprehend,  he  extended  his  ears  and 
fixed  his  intellect  in  the  sublime  symphonies  of 
the  world,  he  alone  hearing  and  understanding, 
as  it  appears,  the  universal  harmony  and  con 
sonance  of  the  spheres,  and  the  stars  that  are 
moved  through  them,  and  which  produce  a 
fuller  and  more  intense  melody  than  anything 
effected  by  mortal  sounds." 


230  A  WEEK 

Traveling  on  foot  very  early  one  morning 
due  east  from  here  about  twenty  miles,  from 
Caleb  Harriman's  tavern  in  Hampstead  toward 
Haverhill,  when  I  reached  the  railroad  in  Plais- 
tow,  I  heard  at  some  distance  a  faint  music  in 
the  air  like  an  ^Eolian  harp,  which  I  immedi 
ately  suspected  to  proceed  from  the  cord  of  the 
telegraghjibrating  in  the  just  awakening  morn 
ing  wind,  and  applying  my  ear  to  one  of  the 
posts  I  was  convinced  that  it  was  so.  It  was 
the  telegraph  harp  singing  its  message  through 
the  country,  ita  message  sejit^aflJLJ3y_,iaen,  but 
by_4£ods._  Perchance,  like  the  statue  of  Mem- 
non,  it  resounds  only  in  the  morning,  when  the 
first  rays  of  the  sun  fall  on  it.  It  was  like  the 
first  lyre  or  shell  heard  on  the  sea-shore,  —  that 
vibrating  cord  high  in  the  air  over  the  shores  of 
earth.  So  have  all  things  their  higher  and  their 
.lower  uses^  ITeard  a  fairer  news  than  the 
journals  ever  print.  It  told  of  things  worthy 
to  hear,  and  worthy  of  the  electric  fluid  to  carry 
the  news  of,  not  of  the  price  of  cotton  and 
flour,  but  it  hinted  at  the  price  of  the  world 
itself  and  of  things  which  are  priceless,  of  abso 
lute  truth  and  beauty. 

Still  the  drum  rolled  on,  and  stirred  our 
blood  to  fresh  extravagance  that  night.  The 
clarion  sound  and  clang  of  corselet  and  buckler 
were  heard  from  many  a  hamlet  of  the  soul, 


MONDAY  231 

and  many  a  knight  was  arming  for  the  fight 
behind  the  encamped  stars. 

"  Before  each  van 

Prick  forth  the  aery  knights,  and  couch  their  spears 
Till  thickest  legions  close ;  with  feats  of  arms 
From  either  end  of  Heaven  the  welkin  burns." 

Away!  away!  away!  away! 

Ye  have  not  kept  your  secret  well, 
I  will  abide  that  other  day, 

Those  other  lands  ye  tell. 

Has  time  no  leisure  left  for  these, 

The  acts  that  ye  rehearse  ? 
Is  not  eternity  a  lease 

For  better  deeds  than  verse  ? 

T  is  sweet  to  hear  of  heroes  dead, 
•  To  know  them  still  alive, 
But  sweeter  if  we  earn  their  bread, 
And  in  us  they  survive. 

Our  life  should  feed  the  springs  of  fame 

With  a  perennial  wave, 
As  ocean  feeds  the  babbling  founts 

Which  find  in  it  their  grave. 

Ye  skies,  drop  gently  round  my  breast. 

And  be  my  corselet  blue, 
Ye  earth,  receive  my  lance  in  rest, 

My  faithful  charger  you ; 

Ye  stars,  my  spear-heads  in  the  sky, 

My  arrow-tips  ye  are ; 
I  see  the  routed  foemen  fly, 

My  bright  spears  fixed  are. 


232  A   WEEK 

Give  me  an  angel  for  a  foe, 

Fix  now  the  place  and  time, 
And  straight  to  meet  him  I  will  go 

Above  the  starry  chime. 

And  with  our  clashing  bucklers'  clang 
The  heavenly  spheres  shall  ring, 

While  bright  the  northern  lights  shall  hang 
Beside  our  tourneying. 

And  if  she  lose  her  champion  true, 

Tell  Heaven  not  despair, 
For  I  will  be  her  champion  new, 

Her  fame  I  will  repair. 

There  was  a  high  wind  this  night,  which  we 
afterwards  learned  had  been  still  more  violent 
elsewhere,  and  had  done  much  injury  to  the 
cornfields  far  and  near;  but  we  only  heard  it 
sigh  from  time  to  time,  as  if  it  had  no  license 
to  shake  the  foundations  of  our  tent ;  the  pines 
murmured,  the  water  rippled,  and  the  tent 
rocked  a  little,  but  we  only  laid  our  ears  closer 
to  the  ground,  while  the  blast  swept  on  to  alarm 
other  men,  and  long  before  sunrise  we  were 
ready  to  pursue  our  voyage  as  usual. 


TUESDAY. 

"  On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky ; 
And  through  the  fields  the  road  runs  by 
To  many-towered  Camelot." 

TENNYSON. 

LONG  before  daylight  we  ranged  abroad, 
hatchet  in  hand,  in  search  of  fuel,  and  made 
the  yet  slumbering  and  dreaming  wood  resound 
with  our  blows.  Then  with  our  fire  we  burned 
up  a  portion  of  the  loitering  night,  while  the 
kettle  sang  its  homely  strain  to  the  morning 
star.  We  tramped  about  the  shore,  waked  all 
the  muskrats,  and  scared  up  the  bittern  and 
birds  that  were  asleep  upon  their  roosts;  we 
hauled  up  and  upset  our  boat,  and  washed  it 
and  rinsed  out  the  clay,  talking  aloud  as  if  it 
were  broad  day,  until  at  length,  by  three 
o'clock,  we  had  completed  our  preparations  and 
were  ready  to  pursue  our  voyage  as  usual;  so, 
shaking  the  clay  from  our  feet,  we  pushed  into 
the  fog. 

Though  we  were  enveloped  in  mist  as  usual, 
we  trusted  that  there  was  a  bright  day  behind  it. 


234  A   WEEK 

Ply  the  oars  !  away  !  away ! 
In  each  dew-drop  of  the  morning 
Lies  the  promise  of  a  day. 

Rivers  from  the  sunrise  flow, 

Springing  with  the  dewy  morn ; 

Voyageurs  'gainst  time  do  row, 

Idle  noon  nor  sunset  know, 
Ever  even  with  the  dawn. 

Belknap,  the  historian  of  this  State,  says  that, 
"  In  the  neighborhood  of  fresh  rivers  and  ponds, 
a  whitish  fog  in  the  morning  lying  over  the 
water  is  a  sure  indication  of  fair  weather  for 
that  day;  and  when  no  fog  is  seen,  rain  is 
expected  before  night."  That  which  seemed 
to  us  to  invest  the  world  was  only  a  narrow 
and  shallow  wreath  of  vapor  stretched  over  the 
channel  of  the  Merrimack  from  the  seaboard  to 
the  mountains.  More  extensive  fogs,  however, 
have  their  own  limits.  I  once  saw  the  day 
break  from  the  top  of  Saddle-back  Mountain 
in  Massachusetts,  above  the  clouds.  As  we 
cannot  distinguish  objects  through  this  dense 
fog,  let  me  tell  this  story  more  at  length. 

I  had  come  over  the  hills  on  foot  and  alone 
in  serene  summer  days,  plucking  the  raspberries 
by  the  wayside,  and  occasionally  buying  a  loaf 
of  bread  at  a  farmer's  house,  with  a  knapsack 
on  my  back  which  held  a  few  traveler's  books 
and  a  change  of  clothing,  and  a  staff  in  my 


TUESDAY  235 

hand.  I  had  that  morning  looked  down  from 
the  Hoosack  Mountain,  where  the  road  crosses 
it,  on  the  village  of  North  Adams  in  the  valley 
three  miles  away  under  my  feet,  showing  how 
uneven  the  earth  may  sometimes  be,  and  mak 
ing  it  seem  an  accident  that  it  should  ever  be 
level  and  convenient  for  the  feet  of  man.  Put 
ting  a  little  rice  and  sugar  and  a  tin  cup  into 
my  knapsack  at  this  village,  I  began  in  the  af 
ternoon  to  ascend  the  mountain,  whose  summit 
is  three  thousand  six  hundred  feet  above  the 
level  of  the  sea,  and  was  seven  or  eight  miles 
distant  by  the  path.  My  route  lay  up  a  long 
and  spacious  valley  called  the  Bellows,  because 
the  winds  rush  up  or  down  it  with  violence  in 
storms,  sloping  up  to  the  very  clouds  between 
the  principal  range  and  a  lower  mountain. 
There  were  a  few  farms  scattered  along  at  dif 
ferent  elevations,  each  commanding  a  fine  pros 
pect  of  the  mountains  to  the  north,  and  a  stream 
ran  down  the  middle  of  the  valley  on  which  near 
the  head  there  was  a  mill.  It  seemed  a  road 
for  the  pilgrim  to  enter  upon  who  would  climb 
to  the  gates  of  heaven.  Now  I  crossed  a  hay- 
field,  and  now  over  the  brook  on  a  slight  bridge, 
still  gradually  ascending  all  the  while  with  a 
sort  of  awe,  and  filled  with  indefinite  expecta 
tions  as  to  what  kind  of  inhabitants  and  what 
kind  of  nature  I  should  come  to  at  last.  It 


236  A   WEEK 

now  seemed  some  advantage  that  the  earth  was 
uneven,  for  one  could  not  imagine  a  more  noble 
position  for  a  farm-house  than  this  vale  af 
forded,  farther  from  or  nearer  to  its  head,  from 
a  glen-like  seclusion  overlooking  the  country  at 
a  great  elevation  between  these  two  mountain 
walls. 

It  reminded  me  of  the  homesteads  of  the 
Huguenots,  on  Staten  Island,  off  the  coast  of 
New  Jersey.  The  hills  in  the  interior  of  this 
island,  though  comparatively  low,  are  pene 
trated  in  various  directions  by  similar  sloping 
valleys  on  a  humble  scale,  gradually  narrowing 
and  rising  to  the  centre,  and  at  the  head  of 
these  the  Huguenots,  who  were  the  first  settlers, 
placed  their  houses  quite  within  the  land,  in 
rural  and  sheltered  places,  in  leafy  recesses 
where  the  breeze  played  with  the  poplar  and 
the  gum-tree,  from  which,  with  equal  security 
in  calm  and  storm,  they  looked  out  through  a 
widening  vista,  over  miles  of  forest  and  stretch 
ing  salt  marsh,  to  the  Huguenot's  Tree,  an  old 
elm  on  the  shore,  at  whose  root  they  had  landed, 
and  across  the  spacious  outer  bay  of  New  York 
to  Sandy  Hook  and  the  Highlands  of  Never- 
sink,  and  thence  over  leagues  of  the  Atlantic, 
perchance  to  some  faint  vessel  in  the  horizon, 
almost  a  day's  sail  on  her  voyage  to  that  Eu 
rope  whence  they  had  come.  When  walking  in 


TUESDA  Y  237 

the  interior  there,  in  the  midst  of  rural  scenery, 
where  there  was  as  little  to  remind  me  of  the 
ocean  as  amid  the  New  Hampshire  hills,  I  have 
suddenly,  through  a  gap,  a  cleft  or  "clove  road," 
as  the  Dutch  settlers  called  it,  caught  sight  of 
a  ship  under  full  sail,  over  a  field  of  corn, 
twenty  or  thirty  miles  at  sea.  The  effect  was 
similar,  since  I  had  no  means  of  measuring  dis 
tances,  to  seeing  a  painted  ship  passed  back 
wards  and  forwards  through  a  magic  lantern. 

But  to  return  to  the  mountain.  It  seemed 
as  if  he  must  be  the  most  singular  and  heavenly 
minded  man  whose  dwelling  stood  highest  up 
the  valley.  The  thunder  had  rumbled  at  my 
heels  all  the  way,  but  the  shower  passed  off  in 
another  direction,  though  if  it  had  not,  I  half 
believed  that  I  should  get  above  it.  I  at  length 
reached  the  last  house  but  cSe,  where  the  path 
to  the  summit  diverged  to  the  right,  while  the 
summit  itself  rose  directly  in  front.  But  I 
determined  to  follow  up  the  valley  to  its  head, 
and  then  find  my  own  route  up  the  steep  as 
jie^sjiojter  and  more  adventurous  way.  I  had 
thoughts  of  returning  to  this  house,  which  was 
well  kept  and  so  nobly  placed,  the  next  day, 
and  perhaps  remaining  a  week  there,  if  I  could 
have  entertainment.  Its  mistress  was  a  frank 
and  hospitable  young  woman,  who  stood  before 
me  in  a  dishabille,  busily  and  unconcernedly 


238  A   WEEK 

combing  her  long  black  hair  while  she  talked, 
giving  her  head  the  necessary  toss  with  each 
sweep  of  the  comb,  with  lively,  sparkling  eyes, 
and  full  of  interest  in  that  lower  world  from 
which  I  had  come,  talking  all  the  while  as  fa 
miliarly  as  if  she  had  known  me  for  years,  and 
reminding  me  of  a  cousin  of  mine.  She  at  first 
had  taken  me  for  a  student  from  Williamstown, 
for  they  went  by  in  parties,  she  said,  either  rid 
ing  or  walking,  almost  every  pleasant  day,  and 
were  a  pretty  wild  set  of  fellows;  but  they 
never  went  by  the  way  I  was  going.  As  I 
passed  the  last  house,  a  man  called  out  to  know 
what  I  had  to  sell,  for,  seeing  my  knapsack, 
he  thought  that  I  might  be  a  peddler  who  was 
taking  this  unusual  route  over  the  ridge  of  the 
valley  into  South  Adams.  He  told  me  that  it 
was  still  four  or  fiHe  miles  to  the  summit  by  the 
path  which  I  had  left,  though  not  more  than 
two  in  a  straight  line  from  where  I  was,  but 
that  nobody  ever  went  this  way ;  there  was  no 
path,  and  I  should  find  it  as  steep  as  the  roof  of 
a  house.  But  I  knew  that  I  was  more  used  to 
woods  and  mountains  than  he,  and  went  along 
through  his  cow-yard,  while  he,  looking  at  the 
sun,  shouted  after  me  that  I  should  not  get  to 
the  top  that  night.  I  soon  reached  the  head  of 
the  valley,  but  as  I  could  not  see  the  summit 
from  this  point,  I  ascended  a  low  mountain  on 


TUESDAY  239 

the  opposite  side,  and  took  its  bearing  with  my 
compass.  I  at  once  entered  the  woods,  and  be 
gan  to  climb  the  steep  side  of  the  mountain  in  a 
diagonal  direction,  taking  the  bearing  of  a  tree 
every  dozen  rods.  The  ascent  was  by  no  means 
difficult  or  unpleasant,  and  occupied  much  less 
time  than  it  would  have  taken  to  follow  the  path. 
Even  country  people,  I  have  observed,  magnify 
the  difficulty  of  traveling  in  the  forest,  and 
especially  among  mountains.  They  seem  to 
lack  their  usual  common  sense  in  this.  I  have 
climbed  several  higher  mountains  without  guide 
or  path,  and  have  found,  as  might  be  expected, 
that  it  takes  only  more  time  and  patience  com 
monly  than  to  travel  the  smoothest  highway. 
It  is  very  rare  that  you  meet  with  obstacles  in 
this  world  which  the  humblest  man  has  not  fac 
ulties  to  surmount.  It  is  true  we  may  come  to 
a  perpendicular  precipice,  but  we  need  not  jump 
off,  nor  run  our  heads  against  it.  A  man  may 
jump  down  his  own  cellar  stairs,  or  dash  his 
brains  out  against  his  chimney,  if  he  is  mad. 
So  far  as  my  experience  goes,  travelers  gener 
ally  exaggerate  the  difficulties  of  the  way. 
Like  most  evil,  the  difficulty  is  imaginary;  for 
what 's  the  hurry?  IfjL^aerson  lost  would  con- 
clude^that  after  all  he  is  not-lost,  he  is  not  be 
side  himself,  -terfr-frfrninding1  in  his  own  oleLghogq 
on  the  very  spot  where  he  is,  and  that  for  the 


240  A   WEEK 

time  being  he  will  live  there;  but  the  places 
that  have  known  him,  they  are  lost,  —  how 
much  anxiety  and  danger  would  vanish.  I  am 
not  alone  if  I  stand  by  myself.  Who  knows 
where  in  space  this  globe  is  rolling?  Yet  we 
will  not  give  ourselves  up  for  lost,  let  it  go 
where  it  will. 

I  made  my  way  steadily  upward  in  a  straight 
line,  through  a  dense  undergrowth  of  mountain 
laurel,  until  the  trees  began  to  have  a  scraggy 
and  infernal  look,  as  if  contending  with  frost 
goblins,  and  at  length  I  reached  the  summit, 
just  as  the  sun  was  setting.  Several  acres  here 
had  been  cleared,  and  were  covered  with  rocks 
and  stumps,  and  there  was  a  rude  observatory 
in  the  middle  which  overlooked  the  woods.  I 
had  one  fair  view  of  the  country  before  the  sun 
went  down,  but  I  was  too  thirsty  to  waste  any 
light  in  viewing  the  prospect,  and  set  out  di 
rectly  to  find  water.  First,  going  down  a  well- 
beaten  path  for  half  a  mile  through  the  low 
scrubby  wood,  till  I  came  to  where  the  water 
stood  in  the  tracks  of  the  horses  which  had  car 
ried  travelers  up,  I  lay  down  flat,  and  drank 
these  dry,  one  after  another,  a  pure,  cold, 
spring-like  water,  but  yet  I  could  not  fill  my 
dipper,  though  I  contrived  little  siphons  of 
grass-stems,  and  ingenious  aqueducts  on  a  small 
scale;  it  was  too  slow  a  process.  Then,  remern- 


TUESDAY  241 

bering  that  I  had  passed  a  moist  place  near  the 
top,  on  my  way  up,  I  returned  to  find  it  again, 
and  here,  with  sharp  stones  and  my  hands,  in 
the  twilight,  I  made  a  well  about  two  feet  deep, 
which  was  soon  filled  with  pure  cold  water, 
and  the  birds  too  came  and  drank  at  it.  So  I 
filled  my  dipper,  and,  making  my  way  back  to 
the  observatory,  collected  some  dry  sticks,  and 
made  a  fire  on  some  flat  stones  which  had  been 
placed  on  the  floor  for  that  purpose,  and  so  I 
soon  cooked  my  supper  of  rice,  having  already 
whittled  a  wooden  spoon  to  eat  it  with. 

I  sat  up  during  the  evening,  reading  by  the 
light  of  the  fire  the  scraps  of  newspapers  in 
which  some  party  had  wrapped  their  luncheon ; 
the  prices  current  in  New  York  and  Boston, 
the  advertisements,  and  the  singular  editorials 
which  some  had  seen  fit  to  publish,  not  foresee 
ing  under  what  critical  circumstances  they  would 
be  read.  I  read  these  things  at  a  vast  advan 
tage  there,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  adver 
tisements,  or  what  is  called  the  business  part  of 
a  paper,  were  greatly  the  best,  the  most  useful, 
natural,  and  respectable.  Almost  all  the  opin 
ions  and  sentiments  expressed  were  so  little  con 
sidered,  so  shallow  and  flimsy,  that  I  thought 
the  very  texture  of  the  paper  must  be  weaker  in 
that  part  and  tear  the  more  easily.  The  ad 
vertisements  and  the  prices  current  were  more 


242  A  WEEK 

closely  allied  to  nature,  and  were  respectable  in 
some  measure  as  tide  and  meteorological  tables 
are;  but  the  reading-matter,  which  I  remem 
bered  was  most  prized  down  below,  unless  it 
was  some  humble  record  of  science,  or  an  ex 
tract  from  some  old  classic,  struck  me  as 
strangely  whimsical,  and  crude,  and  one-idea'd, 
like  a  school -boy's  theme,  such  as  youths  write 
and  after  burn.  The  opinions  were  of  that 
kind  that  are  doomed  to  wear  a  different  aspect 
to-morrow,  like  last  year's  fashions;  as  if 
mankind  were  very  green  indeed,  and  would 
be  ashamed  of  themselves  in  a  few  years,  when 
they  had  outgrown  this  verdant  period.  There 
was,  moreover,  a  singular  disposition  to  wit  and 
humor,  but  rarely  the  slightest  real  success ;  and 
the  apparent  success  was  a  terrible  satire  on  the 
attempt;  the  Evil  Genius  of  man  laughed  the 
loudest  at  his  best  jokes.  The  advertisements, 
as  I  have  said,  such  as  were  serious,  and  not 
of  the  modern  quack  kind,  suggested  pleasing 
and  poetic  thoughts;  for  commerce_ is  really  as 
_intexestiag_as  nature.  The  very  names  of  the 
commodities  were  poetic,  and  as  suggestive  as 
if  they  had  been  inserted  in  a  pleasing  poem, 
—  Lumber,  Cotton,  Sugar,  Hides,  Guano, 
Logwood.  Some  sober,  private,  and  original 
thought  would  have  been  grateful  to  read  there, 
and  as  much  in  harmony  with  the  circumstances 


TUESDA  Y  243 

as  if  it  had  been  written  on  a  mountain-top ;  for 
it  is  of  a  fashion  which  never  changes,  and  as 
respectable  as  hides  and  logwood,  or  any  nat 
ural  product.  What  an  inestimable  companion 
such  a  scrap  of  paper  would  have  been,  contain 
ing  some  fruit  of  a  mature  life !  What  a  relic ! 
What  a  recipe !  It  seemed  a  divine  invention, 
by  which  not  mere  shining  coin,  but  shining 
and  current  thoughts,  could  be  brought  up  and 
left  there. 

As  it  was  cold,  I  collected  quite  a  pile  of 
wood  and  lay  down  on  a  board  against  the  side 
of  the  building,  not  having  any  blanket  to  cover 
me,  with  my  head  to  the  fire,  that  I  might  look 
after  it,  which  is  not  the  Indian  rule.  But  as 
it  grew  colder  towards  midnight,  I  at  length 
encased  myself  completely  in  boards,  managing 
even  to  put  a  board  on  top  of  me,  with  a  large 
stone  on  it,  to  keep  it  down,  and  so  slept  com 
fortably.  I  was  reminded,  it  is  true,  of  the 
Irish  children,  who  inquired  what  their  neigh 
bors  did  who  had  no  door  to  put  over  them  in 
winter  nights  as  they  had;  but  I  am  convinced 
that  there  was  nothing  very  strange  in  the  in 
quiry.  Those  who  have  never  tried  it  can  have 
no  idea  how  far  a  door,  which  keeps  the  single 
blanket  down,  may  go  toward  making  one  com 
fortable.  We  are  constituted  a  good  deal  like 
chickens,  which,  taken  from  the  hen,  and  put  in 


244  A   WEEK 

a  basket  of  cotton  in  the  chimney-corner,  will 
often  peep  till  they  die,  nevertheless ;  but  if  you 
put  in  a  book,  or  anything  heavy,  which  will 
press  down  the  cotton,  and  feel  like  the  hen, 
they  go  to  sleep  directly.  My  only  companions 
were  the  mice,  which  came  to  pick  up  the 
crumbs  that  had  been  left  in  those  scraps  of 
paper;  still,  as  everywhere,  pensioners  on  man, 
and  not  unwisely  improving  this  elevated  tract 
for  their  habitation.  They  nibbled  what  was 
for  them ;  I  nibbled  what  was  for  me.  Once  or 
twice  in  the  night,  when  I  looked  up,  I  saw  a 
white  cloud  drifting  through  the  windows,  and 
filling  the  whole  upper  story. 

This  observatory  was  a  building  of  consider 
able  size,  erected  by  the  students  of  Williams- 
town  College,  whose  buildings  might  be  seen  by 
daylight  gleaming  far  down  in  the  valley.  It 
would  be  no  small  advantage  if  every  college 
were  thus  located  at  the  base  of  a  mountain,  as 
good  at  least  as  one  well-endowed  professorship. 
It  were  as  well  to  be  educated  in  the  shadow  of 
a  mountain  as  in  more  classical  shades.  Some 
will  remember,  no  doubt,  not  only  that  they 
went  to  the  college,  but  that  they  went  to  the 
mountain.  Every  visit  to  its  summit  would,  as  \ 
it  were,  generalize  the  particular  information 
gained  below,  and  subject  it  to  more  catholic 
tests.  ^J 


TUESDA  Y  245 

I  was  up  early  and  perched  upon  the  top  of 
this  tower  to  see  the  daybreak,  for  some  time 
reading  the  names  that  had  been  engraved 
there,  before  I  could  distinguish  more  distant 
objects.  An  "untamable  fly"  buzzed  at  my 
elbow  with  the  same  nonchalance  as  on  a  mo 
lasses  hogshead  at  the  end  of  Long  Wharf. 
Even  there  I  must  attend  to  his  stale  humdrum. 
But  now  I  come  to  the  pith  of  this  long  di 
gression.  As  the  light  increased,  I  discovered 
around  me  an  ocean  of  mist,  which  by  chance 
reached  up  exactly  to  the  base  of  the  tower,  and 
shut  out  every  vestige  of  the  earth,  while  I  was 
left  floating  on  this  fragment  of  the  wreck  of  a 
world,  on  my  carved  plank,  in  cloudland ;  a  sit 
uation  which  required  no  aid  from  the  imagina 
tion  to  render  it  impressive.  As  the  light  in 
the  east  steadily  increased,  it  revealed  to  me 
more  clearly  the  new  world  into  which  I  had 
risen  in  the  night,  the  new  terra  firma  per 
chance  of  my  future  life.  There  was  not  a 
crevice  left  through  which  the  trivial  places  we 
name  Massachusetts  or  Vermont  or  New  York 
could  be  seen,  while  I  still  inhaled  the  clear  at 
mosphere  of  a  July  morning,  —  if  it  were  July 
there.  All  around  beneath  me  was  spread  for 
a  hundred  miles  on  every  side,  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach,  an  undulating  country  of  clouds, 
answering  in  the  varied  swell  of  its  surface  to 


246  A   WEEK 

the  terrestrial  world  it  veiled.  It  was  such 
a  country  as  we  might  see  in  dreams,  with  all 
the  delights  of  paradise.  There  were  immense 
snowy  pastures,  apparently  smooth  shaven  and 
firm,  and  shady  vales  between  the  vaporous 
mountains ;  and  far  in  the  horizon  I  could  see 
where  some  luxurious  misty  timber  jutted  into 
the  prairie,  and  trace  the  windings  of  a  water 
course,  some  unimagined  Amazon  or  Orinoko, 
by  the  misty  trees  on  its  brink.  As  there  was 
wanting  the  symbol,  so  there  was  not  the  sub 
stance  of  impurity,  no  spot  nor  stain.  It  was 
a  favor  for  which  to  be  forever  silent  to  be 
shown  this  vision.  The  earth  beneath  had  be~ 
come  such  a  flitting  thing  of  lights  and  shadows 
as  the  clouds  had  been  before.  It  was  not 
merely  veiled  to  me,  but  it  had  passed  away  like 
the  phantom  of  a  shadow,  cr/aas  oVap,  and  this 
new  platform  was  gained.  As  I  had  climbed 
above  storm  and  cloud,  so  by  successive  days' 
journeys  I  might  reach  the  region  of  eternal 
day,  beyond  the  tapering  shadow  of  the  earth; 
ay,— 

"  Heaven  itself  shall  slide, 
And  roll  away  like  melting  stars  that  glide 
Along  their  oily  threads." 

But  when  its  own  sun  began  to  rise  on  this  pure 
world,  I  found  myself  a  dweller  in  the  dazzling 
halls  of  Aurora,  into  which  poets  have  had  but 


TUESDA  Y  247 

a  partial  glance  over  the  eastern  hills,  drifting 
amid  the  saffron -colored  clouds,  and  playing 
with  the  rosy  fingers  of  the  Dawn,  in  the  very 
path  of  the  Sun's  chariot,  and  sprinkled  with 
its  dewy  dust,  enjoying  the  benignant  smile, 
and  near  at  hand  the  far-darting  glances  of  the 
god.  The  inhabitants  of  earth  behold  com 
monly  but  the  dark  and  shadowy  under-side  of 
heaven's  pavement;  it  is  only  when  seen  at  a 
favorable  angle  in  the  horizon,  morning  or  even 
ing,  that  some  faint  streaks  of  the  rich  lining  of 
the  clouds  are  revealed.  But  my  muse  would 
fail  to  convey  an  impression  of  the  gorgeous 
tapestry  by  which  I  was  surrounded,  such  as 
men  see  faintly  reflected  afar  off  in  the  cham 
bers  of  the  east.  Here,  as  on  earth,  I  saw  the 
gracious  god 

"  Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovereign  eye, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy." 

But  never  here  did  "Heaven's  sun"  stain 
himself. 

But,  alas,  owing,  as  I  think,  to  some  un- 
wortjiinpss  in  rnyaftlf^  my  private  sun  did  stain 
himself,  and 

"  Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  wrack  on  his  celestial  face,"  — 

for  before  the  god  had  reached  the  zenith  the 
heavenly  pavement  rose  and  embraced  my  wa- 


248  A   WEEK 

vering  virtue,  or  rather  I  sank  down  again  into 
that  "forlorn  world,"  from  which  the  celestial 
sun  had  hid  his  visage,  — 

"  How  may  a  worm  that  crawls  along  the  dust, 
Clamber  the  azure  mountains,  thrown  so  high, 
And  fetch  from  thence  thy  fair  idea  just, 
That  in  those  sunny  courts  doth  hidden  lie, 
Clothed  with  such  light  as  blinds  the  angel's  eye  ? 
How  may  weak  mortal  ever  hope  to  file 
His  unsmooth  tongue,  and  his  deprostrate  style  ? 
Oh,  raise  thou  from  his  corse  thy  now  entombed  exile  !  " 

In  the  preceding  evening  I  had  seen  the 
summits  of  new  and  yet  higher  mountains,  the 
Catskills,  by  which  I  might  hope  to  climb  to 
heaven  again,  and  had  set  my  compass  for  a 
fair  lake  in  the  southwest,  which  lay  in  my  way, 
for  which  I  now  steered,  descending  the  moun 
tain  by  my  own  route,  on  the  side  opposite  to 
that  by  which  I  had  ascended,  and  soon  found 
myself  in  the  region  of  cloud  and  drizzling  rain, 
and  the  inhabitants  affirmed  that  it  had  been  a 
cloudy  and  drizzling  day  wholly. 

But  now  we  must  make  haste  back  before  the 
fog  disperses  to  the  blithe  Merrimack  water. 

Since  that  first  "  Away  !  away  !  " 

Many  a  lengthy  reach  we  've  rowed, 

Still  the  sparrow  on  the  spray 

Hastes  to  usher  in  the  day 

With  her  simple  stanza'd  ode. 

We  passed  a  canal-boat  before  sunrise,  grop 


TUESDAY  249 

ing  its  way  to  the  seaboard,  and,  though  we 
could  not  see  it  on  account  of  the  fog,  the  few 
dull,  thumping,  stertorous  sounds  which  we 
heard  impressed  us  with  a  sense  of  weight  and 
irresistible  motion.  One  little  rill  of  commerce 
already  awake  on  this  distant  New  Hampshire 
river.  The  fog,  as  it  required  more  skill  in  the 
steering,  enhanced  the  interest  of  our  early  voy 
age,  and  made  the  river  seem  indefinitely  broad. 
A  slight  mist,  through  which  objects  are  faintly 
visible,  has  the  effect  of  expanding  even  ordi 
nary  streams,  by  a  singular  mirage,  into  arms 
of  the  sea  or  inland  lakes.  In  the  present  in 
stance,  it  was  even  fragrant  and  invigorating, 
and  we  enjoyed  it  as  a  sort  of  earlier  sunshine, 
or  dewy  and  embryo  light. 

Low-anchored  cloud, 

Newfoundland  air, 

Fountain-head  and  source  of  rivers, 

Dew-cloth,  dream  drapery, 

And  napkin  spread  by  fays ; 

Drifting  meadow  of  the  air, 

Where  bloom  the  daisied  banks  and  violets, 

And  in  whose  fenny  labyrinth 

The  bittern  booms  and  heron  wades  ; 

Spirit  of  lakes  and  seas  and  rivers, 

Bear  only  perfumes  and  the  scent 

Of  healing  herbs  to  just  men's  fields ! 

The  same  pleasant  and  observant  historian 
whom  we  quoted  above  says  that,  "In  the 
mountainous  parts  of  the  country,  the  ascent  of 


250  A   WEEK 

vapors,  and  their  formation  into  clouds,  is  a  cu 
rious  and  entertaining  object.  The  vapors  are 
seen  rising  in  small  columns  like  smoke  from 
many  chimneys.  When  risen  to  a  certain 
height,  they  spread,  meet,  condense,  and  are 
attracted  to  the  mountains,  where  they  either 
distill  in  gentle  dews,  and  replenish  the  springs, 
or  descend  in  showers,  accompanied  with  thun 
der.  After  short  intermissions,  the  process  is 
repeated  many  times  in  the  course  of  a  summer 
day,  affording  to  travelers  a  lively  illustration 
of  what  is  observed  in  the  Book  of  Job,  'They 
are  wet  with  the  showers  of  the  mountains. ' ' 

Fogs  and  clouds  which  conceal  the  overshad 
owing  mountains  lend  the  breadth  of  the  plains 
to  mountain  vales.  Even  a  small-featured 
country  acquires  some  grandeur  in  stormy 
weather  when  clouds  are  seen  drifting  between 
the  beholder  and  the  neighboring  hills.  When, 
in  traveling  toward  Haverhill  through  Hamp- 
stead  in  this  State,  on  the  height  of  land  be 
tween  the  Merrimack  and  the  Piscataqua  or  the 
sea,  you  commence  the  descent  eastward,  the 
view  toward  the  coast  is  so  distant  and  unex 
pected,  though  the  sea  is  invisible,  that  you  at 
first  suppose  the  unobstructed  atmosphere  to  be 
a  fog  in  the  lowlands  concealing  hills  of  corre 
sponding  elevation  to  that  you  are  upon ;  but  it 
is  the  mist  of  prejudice  alone,  which  the  winds 


TUESDAY  251 

will  not  disperse.  The  most  stupendous  scenery 
ceases  to  be  sublime  when  it  becomes  distinct, 
or  in  other  words  limited,  and  the  imagination 
is  no  longer  encouraged  to  exaggerate  it.  The 
actual  height  and  breadth  of  a  mountain  or  a 
waterfall  are  always  ridiculously  small;  they 
are  the  imagined  only  that  content  us.  Nature 
is  not  made  after  such  a  fashion  as  we  would 
have  her.  We  piously  exaggerate  her  wonders, 
as  the  scenery  around  our  home. 

Such  was  the  heaviness  of  the  dews  along  this 
river  that  we  were  generally  obliged  to  leave 
our  tent  spread  over  the  bows  of  the  boat  till 
the  sun  had  dried  it,  to  avoid  mildew.  We 
passed  the  mouth  of  Penichook  Brook,  a  wild 
salmon-stream,  in  the  fog,  without  seeing  it. 
At  length  the  sun's  rays  struggled  through  the 
mist  and  showed  us  the  pines  on  shore  dripping 
with  dew,  and  springs  trickling  from  the  moist 
banks,  — 

"  And  now  the  taller  sons,  whom  Titan  warms, 
Of  unshorn  mountains  blown  with  easy  winds, 
Dandle  the  morning's  childhood  in  their  arms, 
And,  if  they  chanced  to  slip  the  prouder  pines, 
The  under  corylets  did  catch  their  shines, 
To  gild  their  leaves." 

We  rowed  for  some  hours  between  glistening 
banks  before  the  sun  had  dried  the  grass  and 
leaves,  or  the  day  had  established  its  character. 
Its  serenity  at  last  seemed  the  more  profound 


252  A   WEEK 

and  secure  for  the  denseness  of  the  morning's 
fog.  The  river  became  swifter,  and  the  scenery 
more  pleasing  than  before.  The  banks  were 
steep  and  clayey  for  the  most  part,  and  trickling 
with  water,  and  where  a  spring  oozed  out  a  few 
feet  above  the  river  the  boatmen  had  cut  a 
trough  out  of  a  slab  with  their  axes,  and  placed 
it  so  as  to  receive  the  water  and  fill  their  jugs 
conveniently.  Sometimes  this  purer  and  cooler 
water,  bursting  out  from  under  a  pine  or  a 
rock,  was  collected  into  a  basin  close  to  the 
edge  of  and  level  with  the  river,  a  fountain- 
head  of  the  Merrimack.  So  near  along  life's 
stream  are  the  fountains  of  innocence  and  youth 
making  fertile  its  sandy  margin ;  and  the  voy- 
ageur  will  do  well  to  replenish  his  vessels  often 
at  these  uncontaminated  sources.  Some  youth 
ful  spring,  perchance,  still  empties  with  tin 
kling  music  into  the  oldest  river,  even  when  it 
is  falling  into  the  sea,  and  we  imagine  that  its 
music  is  distinguished  by  the  river-gods  from 
the  general  lapse  of  the  stream,  and  falls  sweeter 
on  their  ears  in  proportion  as  it  is  nearer  to  the 
ocean.  As  the  evaporations  of  the  river  feed 
thus  these  unsuspected  springs  which  filter 
through  its  banks,  so,  perchance,  our  aspira 
tions  fall  back  again  in  springs  on  the  margin 
of  life's  stream  to  refresh  and  purify  it.  The 
yellow  and  tepid  river  may  float  his  scow,  and 


TUESDA  Y  253 

cheer  Ms  eye  with  its  reflections  and  its  ripples, 
but  the  boatman  quenches  his  thirst  at  this 
small  rill  alone.  It  is  this  purer  and  cooler 
element  that  chiefly  sustains  his  life.  The  race 
will  long  survive  that  is  thus  discreet. 

Our  course  this  morning  lay  between  the  ter 
ritories  of  Merrimack,  on  the  west,  and  Litch- 
field,  once  called  Brenton's  Farm,  on  the  east, 
which  townships  were  anciently  the  Indian 
Naticook.  Brenton  was  a  fur-trader  among  the 
Indians,  and  these  lands  were  granted  to  him 
in  1656.  The  latter  township  contains  about 
five  hundred  inhabitants,  of  whom,  however, 
we  saw  none,  and  but  few  of  their  dwellings. 
Being  on  the  river,  whose  banks  are  always 
high  and  generally  conceal  the  few  houses,  the 
country  appeared  much  more  wild  and  primi 
tive  than  to  the  traveler  on  the  neighboring 
roads.  The  river  is  by  far  the  most  attractive 
highway,  and  those  boatmen  who  have  spent 
twenty  or  twenty-five  years  on  it  must  have  had 
a  much  fairer,  more  wild,  and  memorable  ex 
perience  than  the  dusty  and  jarring  one  of  the 
teamster  who  has  driven,  during  the  same  time, 
on  the  roads  which  run  parallel  with  the  stream. 
As  one  ascends  the  Merrimack  he  rarely  sees  a 
village,  but  for  the  most  part  alternate  wood 
and  pasture  lands,  and  sometimes  a  field  of  corn 
or  potatoes,  of  rye  or  oats  or  English  grass, 


254  A  WEEK 

with  a  few  straggling  apple-trees,  and,  at  still 
longer  intervals,  a  farmer's  house.  The  soil, 
excepting  the  best  of  the  interval,  is  commonly 
as  light  and  sandy  as  a  patriot  could  desire. 
Sometimes  this  forenoon  the  country  appeared 
in  its  primitive  state,  and  as  if  the  Indian  still 
inhabited  it,  and,  again,  as  if  many  free,  new 
settlers  occupied  it,  their  slight  fences  straggling 
down  to  the  water's  edge;  and  the  barking  of 
dogs,  and  even  the  prattle  of  children,  were 
heard,  and  smoke  was  seen  to  go  up  from  some 
hearthstone,  and  the  banks  were  divided  into 
patches  of  pasture,  mowing,  tillage,  and  wood 
land.  But  when  the  river  spread  out  broader, 
with  an  uninhabited  islet,  or  a  long,  low,  sandy 
shore  which  ran  on  single  and  devious,  not  an 
swering  to  its  opposite,  but  far  off  as  if  it  were 
sea-shore  or  single  coast,  and  the  land  no  longer 
nursed  the  river  in  its  bosom,  but  they  con 
versed  as  equals,  the  rustling  leaves  with  rip 
pling  waves,  and  few  fences  were  seen,  but  high 
oak  woods  on  one  side,  and  large  herds  of  cattle, 
and  all  tracks  seemed  a  point  to  one  centre  be 
hind  some  statelier  grove,  —  we  imagined  that 
the  river  flowed  through  an  extensive  manor, 
and  that  the  few  inhabitants  were  retainers  to  a 
lord,  and  a  feudal  state  of  things  prevailed. 

When  there  was  a  suitable  reach,  we  caught 
sight  of  the  Goffstown   mountain,   the  Indian 


TUESDA  Y  255 

Uncannunuc,  rising  before  us  on  the  west  side. 
It  was  a  calm  and  beautiful  day,  with  only  a 
slight  zephyr  to  ripple  the  surface  of  the  water, 
and  rustle  the  woods  on  shore,  and  just  warmth 
enough  to  prove  the  kindly  disposition  of  Nature 
to  her  children.  With  buoyant  spirits  and  vig 
orous  impulses  we  tossed  our  boat  rapidly  along 
into  the  very  middle  of  this  forenoon.  The 
fish-hawk  sailed  and  screamed  overhead.  The 
chipping  or  striped  squirrel,  Sciurus  striatus 
(Tamias  Lysteri,  Aud.),  sat  upon  the  end  of 
some  Virginia  fence  or  rider  reaching  over  the 
stream,  twirling  a  green  nut  with  one  paw,  as 
in  a  lathe,  while  the  other  held  it  fast  against 
its  incisors  as  chisels.  Like  an  independent 
russet  leaf,  with  a  will  of  its  own,  rustling 
whither  it  could;  now  under  the  fence,  now 
over  it,  now  peeping  at  the  voyageurs  through  a 
crack  with  only  its  tail  visible,  now  at  its  lunch 
deep  in  the  toothsome  kernel,  and  now  a  rod  off 
playing  at  hide-and-seek,  with  the  nut  stowed 
away  in  its  chops,  where  were  half  a  dozen  more 
besides,  extending  its  cheeks  to  a  ludicrous 
breadth,  —  as  if  it  were  devising  through  what 
safe  valve  of  frisk  or  somerset  to  let  its  super 
fluous  life  escape ;  the  stream  passing  harmlessly 
off,  even  while  it  sits,  in  constant  electric  flashes 
through  its  tail.  And  now  with  a  chuckling 
squeak  it  dives  into  the  root  of  a  hazel,  and  we 


256  A  WEEK 

see  no  more  of  it.  Or  the  larger  red  squirrel 
or  chickaree,  sometimes  called  the  Hudson  Bay 
squirrel  (Sciurus  Hudsonius),  gave  warning  of 
our  approach  by  that  peculiar  alarum  of  his, 
like  the  winding  up  of  some  strong  clock,  in  the 
top  of  a  pine-tree,  and  dodged  behind  its  stem, 
or  leaped  from  tree  to  tree  with  such  caution 
and  adroitness,  as  if  much  depended  on  the 
fidelity  of  his  scout,  running  along  the  white- 
pine  boughs  sometimes  twenty  rods  by  our  side, 
with  such  speed,  and  by  such  unerring  routes, 
as  if  it  were  some  well-worn  familiar  path  to 
him;  and  presently,  when  we  have  passed,  he 
returns  to  his  work  of  cutting  off  the  pine-cones, 
and  letting  them  fall  to  the  ground. 

We  passed  Cromwell's  Falls,  the  first  we  met 
with  on  this  river,  this  forenoon,  by  means  of 
locks,  without  using  our  wheels.  These  falls 
are  the  Nesenkeag  of  the  Indians.  Great  Ne- 
senkeag  Stream  comes  in  on  the  right  just 
above,  and  Little  Nesenkeag  some  distance  be 
low,  both  in  Litchfield.  We  read  in  the  Gaz 
etteer,  under  the  head  of  Merrimack,  that  "The 
first  house  in  this  town  was  erected  on  the  mar 
gin  of  the  river  [soon  after  1665]  for  a  house 
of  traffic  with  the  Indians.  For  some  time  one 
Cromwell  carried  on  a  lucrative  trade  with 
them,  weighing  their  furs  with  his  foot,  till, 
enraged  at  his  supposed  or  real  deception,  they 


TUESDAY  257 

formed  the  resolution  to  murder  him.  This  in 
tention  being  communicated  to  Cromwell,  he 
buried  his  wealth  and  made  his  escape.  Within 
a  few  hours  after  his  flight,  a  party  of  the  Pena- 
cook  tribe  arrived,  and,  not  finding  the  object 
of  their  resentment,  burnt  his  habitation." 
Upon  the  top  of  the  high  bank  here,  close  to  the 
river,  was  still  to  be  seen  his  cellar,  now  over 
grown  with  trees.  It  was  a  convenient  spot  for 
such  a  traffic,  at  the  foot  of  the  first  falls  above 
the  settlements,  and  commanding  a  pleasant 
view  up  the  river,  where  he  could  see  the  In 
dians  coming  down  with  their  furs.  The  lock- 
man  told  us  that  his  shovel  and  tongs  had  been 
ploughed  up  here,  and  also  a  stone  with  his 
name  on  it.  But  we  will  not  vouch  for  the 
truth  of  this  story.  In  the  New  Hampshire 
Historical  Collections  for  1815  it  says,  "Some 
time  after,  pewter  was  found  in  the  well,  and  an 
iron  pot  and  trammel  in  the  sand;  the  latter  are 
preserved."  These  were  the  traces  of  the  white 
trader.  On  the  opposite  bank,  where  it  jutted 
over  the  stream  cape-wise,  we  picked  up  four 
arrow-heads,  and  a  small  Indian  tool  made  of 
stone,  as  soon  as  we  had  climbed  it,  where 
plainly  there  had  once  stood  a  wigwam  of  the 
Indians  with  whom  Cromwell  traded,  and  who 
fished  and  hunted  here  before  he  came. 
1  As  usual,  the  gossips  have  not  been  silent 


258  A   WEEK 

respecting  Cromwell' s  buried  wealth,  and  it  is 
said  that  some  years  ago  a  farmer's  plough,  not 
far  from  here,  slid  over  a  flat  stone  which 
emitted  a  hollow  sound,  and,  on  its  being  raised, 
a  small  hole  six  inches  in  diameter  was  discov 
ered,  stoned  about,  from  which  a  sum  of  money 
was  taken.  The  lock-man  told  us  another  sim 
ilar  story  about  a  farmer  in  a  neighboring 
town,  who  had  been  a  poor  man,  but  who  sud 
denly  bought  a  good  farm,  and  was  well  to  do 
in  the  world,  and,  when  he  was  questioned,  did 
not  give  a  satisfactory  account  of  the  matter; 
how  few,  alas,  could!  This  caused  his  hired 
man  to  remember  that  one  day,  as  they  were 
ploughing  together,  the  plough  struck  some 
thing,  and  his  employer,  going  back  to  look, 
concluded  not  to  go  round  again,  saying  that  the 
sky  looked  rather  lowering,  and  so  put  up  his 
team.  The  like  urgency  has  caused  many  things 
to  be  remembered  which  never  transpired.  The 
truth  is,  there  is  money  buried  everywhere,  and 
you  have  only  to  go  to  work  to  find  it. 

Not  far  from  these  falls  stands  an  oak-tree, 
on  the  interval,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from 
the  river,  on  the  farm  of  a  Mr.  Lund,  which 
was  pointed  out  to  us  as  the  spot  where  French, 
the  leader  of  the  party  which  went  in  pursuit  of 
the  Indians  from  Dunstable,  was  killed.  Far- 
well  dodged  them  in  the  thick  woods  near.  It 


TUESDAY  259 

did  not  look  as  if  men  had  ever  had  to  run 
for  their  lives  on  this  now  open  and  peaceful 
interval. 

Here  too  was  another  extensive  desert  by  the 
side  of  the  road  in  Litchfield,  visible  from  the 
bank  of  the  river.  The  sand  was  blown  off  in 
some  places  to  the  depth  of  ten  or  twelve  feet, 
leaving  small  grotesque  hillocks  of  that  height, 
where  there  was  a  clump  of  bushes  firmly 
rooted.  Thirty  or  forty  years  ago,  as  we  were 
told,  it  was  a  sheep  -  pasture,  but  the  sheep, 
being  worried  by  the  fleas,  began  to  paw  the 
ground,  till  they  broke  the  sod,  and  so  the  sand 
began  to  blow,  till  now  it  had  extended  over 
forty  or  fifty  acres.  This  evil  might  easily  have 
been  remedied,  at  first,  by  spreading  birches 
with  their  leaves  on  over  the  sand,  and  fasten 
ing  them  down  with  stakes,  to  break  the  wind. 
The  fleas  bit  the  sheep,  and  the  sheep  bit  the 
ground,  and  the  sore  had  spread  to  this  extent. 
It  is  astonishing  what  a  great  sore  a  little 
scratch  breedeth.  Who  knows  but  Sahara, 
where  caravans  and  cities  are  buried,  began 
with  the  bite  of  an  African  flea?  This  poor 
globe,  how  it  must  itch  in  many  places !  Will 
no  god  be  kind  enough  to  spread  a  salve  of 
birches  over  its  sores?  Here  too  we  noticed 
where  the  Indians  had  gathered  a  heap  of 
stones,  perhaps  for  their  council-fire,  which,  by 


200  A  WEEK 

their  weight  having  prevented  the  sand  under 
them  from  blowing  away,  were  left  on  the  sum 
mit  of  a  mound.  They  told  us  that  arrow 
heads,  and  also  bullets  of  lead  and  iron,  had 
been  found  here.  We  noticed  several  other 
sandy  tracts  in  our  voyage;  and  the  course  of 
the  Merrimack  can  be  traced  from  the  nearest 
mountain  by  its  yellow  sand-banks,  though  the 
river  itself  is  for  the  most  part  invisible.  Law 
suits,  as  we  hear,  have  in  some  cases  grown  out 
of  these  causes.  Railroads  have  been  made 
through  certain  irritable  districts,  breaking 
their  sod,  and  so  have  set  the  sand  to  blowing, 
till  it  has  converted  fertile  farms  into  deserts, 
and  the  company  has  had  to  pay  the  damages. 

This  sand  seemed  to  us  the  connecting  link 
between  land  and  water.  It  was  a  kind  of  water 
on  which  you  could  walk,  and  you  could  see  the 
ripple-marks  on  its  surface,  produced  by  the 
winds,  precisely  like  those  at  the  bottom  of  a 
brook  or  lake.  We  had  read  that  Mussulmans 
are  permitted  by  the  Koran  to  perform  their 
ablutions  in  sand  when  they  cannot  get  water, 
a  necessary  indulgence  in  Arabia,  and  we  now 
understood  the  propriety  of  this  provision. 

Plum  Island,  at  the  mouth  of  this  river,  to 
whose  formation,  perhaps,  these  very  banks 
have  sent  their  contribution,  is  a  similar  desert 
of  drifting  sand,  of  various  colors,  blown  into 


TUESDAY  261 

graceful  curves  by  the  wind.  It  is  a  mere 
sand-bar  exposed,  stretc*hing  nine  miles  parallel 
to  the  coast,  and,  exclusive  of  the  marsh  on 
the  inside,  rarely  more  than  half  a  mile  wide. 
There  are  but  half  a  dozen  houses  on  it,  and  it 
is  almost  without  a  tree,  or  a  sod,  or  any  green 
thing  with  which  a  countryman  is  familiar. 
The  thin  vegetation  stands  half  buried  in  sand, 
as  in  drifting  snow.  The  only  shrub,  the 
beach-plum,  which  gives  the  island  its  name, 
grows  but  a  few  feet  high;  but  this  is  so  abun 
dant  that  parties  of  a  hundred  at  once  come 
from  the  main-land  and  down  the  Merrimack, 
in  September,  pitch  their  tents,  and  gather  the 
plums,  which  are  good  to  eat  raw  and  to  pre 
serve.  The  graceful  and  delicate  beach-pea, 
too,  grows  abundantly  amid  the  sand,  and  sev 
eral  strange,  moss-like  and  succulent  plants. 
The  island  for  its  whole  length  is  scolloped  into 
low  hills,  not  more  than  twenty  feet  high,  by 
the  wind,  and,  excepting  a  faint  trail  on  the 
edge  of  the  marsh,  is  as  trackless  as  Sahara. 
There  are  dreary  bluffs  of  sand  and  valleys 
ploughed  by  the  wind,  where  you  might  expect 
to  discover  the  bones  of  a  caravan.  Schooners 
come  from  Boston  to  load  with  the  sand  for 
masons'  uses,  and  in  a  few  hours  the  wind  ob 
literates  all  traces  of  their  work.  Yet  you  have 
only  to  dig  a  foot  or  two  anywhere  to  come  to 


262  A   WEEK 

fresh  water;  and  you  are  surprised  to  learn  that 
woodchucks  abound  here,  and  foxes  are  found, 
though  you  see  not  where  they  can  burrow  or 
hide  themselves.  I  have  walked  down  the 
whole  length  of  its  broad  beach  at  low  tide,  at 
which  time  alone  you  can  find  a  firm  ground  to 
walk  on,  and  probably  Massachusetts  does  not 
furnish  a  more  grand  and  dreary  walk.  On  the 
seaside  there  are  only  a  distant  sail  and  a  few 
coots  to  break  the  grand  monotony.  A  solitary 
stake  stuck  up,  or  a  sharper  sand-hill  than 
usual,  is  remarkable  as  a  landmark  for  miles; 
while  for  music  you  hear  only  the  ceaseless 
sound  of  the  surf,  and  the  dreary  peep  of  the 
beach-birds. 

There  were  several  canal-boats  at  Cromwell's 
Falls  passing  through  the  locks,  for  which  we 
waited.  In  the  forward  part  of  one  stood  a 
brawny  New  Hampshire  man,  leaning  on  his 
pole,  bareheaded  and  in  shirt  and  trousers  only, 
a  rude  Apollo  of  a  man,  coming  down  from  that 
"vast  uplandish  country,"  to  the  main;  of 
nameless  age,  with  flaxen  hair,  and  vigorous, 
weather-bleached  countenance,  in  whose  wrin 
kles  the  sun  still  lodged,  as  little  touched  by  the 
heats  and  frosts  and  withering  cares  of  life  as  a 
maple  of  the  mountain ;  an  undressed,  unkempt, 
uncivil  man,  with  whom  we  parleyed  awhile, 


TUESDA  Y  263 

and  parted  not  without  a  sincere  interest  in  one 
another.  His  humanity  was  genuine  and  in 
stinctive,  and  his  rudeness  only  a  manner.  He 
inquired,  just  as  we  were  passing  out  of  ear 
shot,  if  we  had  killed  anything,  and  we  shouted 
after  him  that  we  had  shot  a  buoy,  and  could 
see  him  for  a  long  while  scratching  his  head  in 
vain  to  know  if  he  had  heard  aright. 

There  is  reason  in  the  distinction  of  civil  and 
uncivil.  The  manners  are  sometimes  so  rough 
a  rind  that  we  doubt  whether  they  cover  any 
core  or  sap-wood  at  all.  We  sometimes  meet 
uncivil  men,  children  of  Amazons,  who  dwell  by 
mountain  paths,  and  are  said  to  be  inhospitable 
to  strangers ;  whose  salutation  is  as  rude  as  the 
grasp  of  their  brawny  hands,  and  who  deal  with 
men  as  unceremoniously  as  they  are  wont  to 
deal  with  the  elements.  They  need  only  to  ex 
tend  their  clearings,  and  let  in  more  sunlight, 
to  seek  out  the  southern  slopes  of  the  hills, 
from  which  they  may  look  down  on  the  civil 
plain  or  ocean,  and  temper  their  diet  duly  with 
the  cereal  fruits,  consuming  less  wild  meat  and 
acorns,  to  become  like  the  inhabitants  of  cities. 
A  true  politeness  does  not  result  from  any  hasty 
and  artificial  polishing,  it  is  true,  but  grows 
naturally  in  characters  of  the  right  grain  and 
quality,  through  a  long  fronting  of  men  and 
events,  and  rubbing  on  good  and  bad  fortune. 


264  A  WEEK 

Perhaps  I  can  tell  a  tale  to  the  purpose  while 
the  lock  is  filling,  —  for  our  voyage  this  fore 
noon  furnishes  but  few  incidents  of  importance. 

Early  one  summer  morning  I  had  left  the 
shores  of  the  Connecticut,  and  for  the  livelong 
day  traveled  up  the  bank  of  a  river,  which 
came  in  from  the  west;  now  looking  down  on 
the  stream,  foaming  and  rippling  through  the 
forest  a  mile  off,  from  the  hills  over  which  the 
road  led,  and  now  sitting  on  its  rocky  brink 
and  dipping  my  feet  in  its  rapids,  or  bathing 
adventurously  in  mid-channel.  The  hills  grew 
more  and  more  frequent,  and  gradually  swelled 
into  mountains  as  I  advanced,  hemming  in  the 
course  of  the  river,  so  that  at  last  I  could  not 
see  where  it  came  from,  and  was  at  liberty  to 
imagine  the  most  wonderful  meanderings  and 
descents.  At  noon  I  slept  on  the  grass  in  the 
shade  of  a  maple,  where  the  river  had  found  a 
broader  channel  than  usual,  and  was  spread  out 
shallow,  with  frequent  sand-bars  exposed.  In 
the  names  of  the  towns  I  recognized  some  which 
I  had  long  ago  read  on  teamsters'  wagons,  that 
had  come  from  far  up  country ;  quiet  uplandish 
towns,  of  mountainous  fame.  I  walked  along, 
musing  and  enchanted,  by  rows  of  sugar-maples, 
through  the  small  and  uninquisitive  villages, 
and  sometimes  was  pleased  with  the  sight  of  a 


TUESDAY  265 

boat  drawn  up  on  a  sand-bar,  where  there  ap 
peared  no  inhabitants  to  use  it.  It  seemed, 
however,  as  essential  to  the  river  as  a  fish,  and 
to  lend  a  certain  dignity  to  it.  It  was  like  the 
trout  of  mountain  streams  to  the  fishes  of  the 
sea,  or  like  the  young  of  the  land-crab  born  far 
in  the  interior,  who  have  never  yet  heard  the 
sound  of  the  ocean's  surf.  The  hills  approached 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  stream,  until  at  last 
they  closed  behind  me,  and  I  found  myself  just 
before  nightfall  in  a  romantic  and  retired  val 
ley,  about  half  a  mile  in  length,  and  barely  wide 
enough  for  the  stream  at  its  bottom.  I  thought 
that  there  could  be  no  finer  site  for  a  cottage 
among  mountains.  You  could  anywhere  run 
across  the  stream  on  the  rocks,  and  its  constant 
murmuring  would  quiet  the  passions  of  man 
kind  forever.  Suddenly  the  road,  which  seemed 
aiming  for  the  mountain-side,  turned  short  to 
the  left,  and  another  valley  opened,  concealing 
the  former,  and  of  the  same  character  with  it. 
It  was  the  most  remarkable  and  pleasing  scen 
ery  I  had  ever  seen.  I  found  here  a  few  mild 
and  hospitable  inhabitants,  who,  as  the  day  was 
not  quite  spent,  and  I  was  anxious  to  improve 
the  light,  directed  me  four  or  five  miles  farther 
on  my  way  to  the  dwelling  of  a  man  whose 
name  was  Rice,  who  occupied  the  last  and  high 
est  of  the  valleys  that  lay  in  my  path,  and  who, 


266  A   WEEK 

they  said,  was  a  rather  rude  and  uncivil  man. 
But  "what  is  a  foreign  country  to  those  who 
have  science  ?  Who  is  a  stranger  to  those  who 
have  the  habit  of  speaking  kindly?  " 

At  length,  as  the  sun  was  setting  behind  the 
mountains  in  a  still  darker  and  more  solitary 
vale,  I  reached  the  dwelling  of  this  man.  Ex 
cept  for  the  narrowness  of  the  plain,  and  that 
the  stones  were  solid  granite,  it  was  the  counter 
part  of  that  retreat  to  which  Belpho3be  bore  the 
wounded  Timias,  — 

"  In  a  pleasant  glade, 
With  mountains  round  about  environed, 
And  mighty  woods,  which  did  the  valley  shade, 
And  like  a  stately  theatre  it  made, 
Spreading  itself  into  a  spacious  plain ; 
And  in  the  midst  a  little  river  played 
Amongst  the  pumy  stones  which  seemed  to  plain, 
With  gentle  murmur,  that  his  course  they  did  restrain." 

I  observed,  as  I  drew  near,  that  he  was  not 
so  rude  as  I  had  anticipated,  for  he  kept  many 
cattle,  and  dogs  to  watch  them,  and  I  saw 
where  he  had  made  maple-sugar  on  the  sides  of 
the  mountains,  and  above  all  distinguished  the 
voices  of  children  mingling  with  the  murmur  of 
the  torrent  before  the  door.  As  I  passed  his 
stable,  I  met  one  whom  I  supposed  to  be  a  hired 
man,  attending  to  his  cattle,  and  I  inquired 
if  they  entertained  travelers  at  that  house. 
"Sometimes  we  do,"  he  answered  gruffly,  and 


TUESDAY  267 

immediately  went  to  the  farthest  stall  from  me, 
and  I  perceived  that  it  was  Eiee  himself  whom 
I  had  addressed.  But  pardoning  this  incivility 
to  the  wildness  of  the  scenery,  I  bent  my  steps 
to  the  house.  There  was  no  sign -post  before 
it,  nor  any  of  the  usual  invitations  to  the  trav 
eler,  though  I  saw  by  the  road  that  many  went 
and  came  there,  but  the  owner's  name  only  was 
fastened  to  the  outside;  a  sort  of  implied  and 
sullen  invitation,  as  I  thought.  I  passed  from 
room  to  room  without  meeting  any  one,  till  I 
came  to  what  seemed  the  guests'  apartment, 
which  was  neat,  and  even  had  an  air  of  refine 
ment  about  it,  and  I  was  glad  to  find  a  map 
against  the  wall  which  would  direct  me  on  my 
journey  on  the  morrow.  At  length  I  heard  a 
step  in  a  distant  apartment,  which  was  the  first 
I  had  entered,  and  went  to  see  if  the  landlord 
had  come  in ;  but  it  proved  to  be  only  a  child, 
one  of  those  whose  voices  I  had  heard,  probably 
his  son,  and  between  him  and  me  stood  in  the 
doorway  a  large  watch-dog,  which  growled  at 
me,  and  looked  as  if  he  would  presently  spring, 
but  the  boy  did  not  speak  to  him ;  and  when  I 
asked  for  a  glass  of  water,  he  briefly  said,  "  It 
runs  in  the  corner."  So  I  took  a  mug  from  the 
counter  and  went  out  of  doors,  and  searched 
round  the  corner  of  the  house,  but  could  find 
neither  well  nor  spring,  nor  any  water  but  the 


268  A   WEEK 

stream  which  ran  all  along  the  front.  I  came 
back,  therefore,  and,  setting  down  the  mug, 
asked  the  child  if  the  stream  was  good  to  drink ; 
whereupon  he  seized  the  mug,  and,  going  to  the 
corner  of  the  room,  where  a  cool  spring  which 
issued  from  the  mountain  behind  trickled 
through  a  pipe  into  the  apartment,  filled  it,  and 
drank,  and  gave  it  to  me  empty  again,  and, 
calling  to  the  dog,  rushed  out  of  doors.  Ere 
long  some  of  the  hired  men  made  their  appear 
ance,  and  drank  at  the  spring,  and  lazily  washed 
themselves  and  combed  their  hair  in  silence, 
and  some  sat  down  as  if  weary,  and  fell  asleep 
in  their  seats.  But  all  the  while  I  saw  no  wo 
men,  though  I  sometimes  heard  a  bustle  in  that 
part  of  the  house  from  which  the  spring  came. 

At  length  Rice  himself  came  in,  for  it  was 
now  dark,  with  an  ox-whip  in  his  hand,  breath 
ing  hard,  and  he  too  soon  settled  down  into  his 
seat  not  far  from  me,  as  if,  now  that  his  day's 
work  was  done,  he  had  no  farther  to  travel,  but 
only  to  digest  his  supper  at  his  leisure.  When 
I  asked  him  if  he  could  give  me  a  bed,  he  said 
there  was  one  ready,  in  such  a  tone  as  implied 
that  I  ought  to  have  known  it,  and  the  less  said 
about  that  the  better.  So  far  so  good.  And 
yet  he  continued  to  look  at  me  as  if  he  would 
fain  have  me  say  something  further  like  a  trav 
eler.  I  remarked  that  it  was  a  wild  and  rug- 


TUESDAY  269 

ged  ceurtry  he  inhabited,  and  worth  coming 
many  miles  to  see.  "Not  so  very  rough  nei 
ther,"  said  he,  and  appealed  to  his  men  to  bear 
witness  to  the  breadth  and  smoothness  of  his 
fields,  which  consisted  in  all  of  one  small  inter 
val,  and  to  the  size  of  his  crops;  "and  if  we 
have  some  hills,"  added  he,  "there  's  no  better 
pasturage  anywhere."  I  then  asked  if  this 
place  was  the  one  I  had  heard  of,  calling  it  by 
a  name  I  had  seen  on  the  map,  or  if  it  was  a 
certain  other;  and  he  answered,  gruffly,  that  it 
was  neither  the  one  nor  the  other;  that  he  had 
settled  it  and  cultivated  it,  and  made  it  what  it 
was,  and  I  could  know  nothing  about  it.  Ob 
serving  some  guns  and  other  implements  of 
hunting  hanging  on  brackets  around  the  room, 
and  his  hounds  now  sleeping  on  the  floor,  I  took 
occasion  to  change  the  discourse,  and  inquired 
if  there  was  much  game  in  that  country,  and  he 
answered  this  question  more  graciously,  having 
some  glimmering  of  my  drift ;  but  when  I  in 
quired  if  there  were  any  bears,  he  answered  im 
patiently  that  he  was  no  more  in  danger  of  los 
ing  his  sheep  than  his  neighbors ;  he  had  tamed 
and  civilized  that  region.  After  a  pause,  think 
ing  of  my  journey  on  the  morrow,  and  the  few 
hours  of  daylight  in  that  hollow  and  mountain 
ous  country,  which  would  require  me  to  be  on 
mJ  waJ  betimes,  I  remarked  that  the  day  must 


270  A  WEEK 

be  shorter  by  an  hour  there  than  on  the  neigh 
boring  plains ;  at  which  he  gruffly  asked  what  I 
knew  about  it,  and  affirmed  that  he  had  as  much 
daylight  as  his  neighbors ;  he  ventured  to  say, 
the  days  were  longer  there  than  where  I  lived, 
as  I  should  find  if  I  stayed ;  that  in  some  way, 
I  could  not  be  expected  to  understand  how,  the 
sun  came  over  the  mountains  half  an  hour  ear 
lier,  and  stayed  half  an  hour  later  there  than  on 
the  neighboring  plains.  And  more  of  like  sort 
he  said.  He  was,  indeed,  as  rude  as  a  fabled 
satyr.  But  I  suffered  him  to  pass  for  what  he 
was, — for  why  should  I  quarrel  with  nature? 
—  and  was  even  pleased  at  the  discovery  of 
such  a  singular  natural  phenomenon.  I  dealt 
with  him  as  if  to  me  all  manners  were  indiffer 
ent,  and  he  had  a  sweet,  wild  way  with  him.  I 
would  not  question  nature,  and  I  would  rather 
have  him  as  he  was  than  as  I  would  have  him. 
For  I  had  come  up  here  not  for  sympathy,  or 
kindness,  or  society,  but  for  novelty  and  adven 
ture,  and  to  see  what  nature  had  produced  here. 
I  therefore  did  not  repel  his  rudeness,  but  quite 
innocently  welcomed  it  all,  and  knew  how  to 
appreciate  it,  as  if  I  were  reading  in  an  old 
drama  a  part  well  sustained.  He  was  indeed  a 
coarse  and  sensual  man,  and,  as  I  have  said, 
uncivil,  but  he  had  his  just  quarrel  with  nature 
and  mankind,  I  have  no  doubt,  only  he  had  no 


TUESDAY  271 

artificial  covering  to  Ms  ill-humors.  He  was 
earthy  enough,  but  yet  there  was  good  soil  in 
him,  and  even  a  long-suffering  Saxon  probity 
at  bottom.  If  you  could  represent  the  case  to 
him,  he  would  not  let  the  race  die  out  in  him, 
like  a  red  Indian. 

At  length  I  told  him  that  he  was  a  fortunate 
man,  and  I  trusted  that  he  was  grateful  for  so 
much  light;  and,  rising,  said  I  would  take  a 
lamp,  and  that  I  would  pay  him  then  for  my 
lodging,  for  I  expected  to  recommence  my  jour 
ney  even  as  early  as  the  sun  rose  in  his  country ; 
but  he  answered  in  haste,  and  this  time  civilly, 
that  I  should  not  fail  to  find  some  of  his  house 
hold  stirring,  however  early,  for  they  were  no 
sluggards,  and  I  could  take  my  breakfast  with 
them  before  I  started,  if  I  chose;  and  as  he 
lighted  the  lamp  I  detected  a  gleam  of  true  hos 
pitality  and  ancient  civility,  a  beam  of  pure  and 
even  gentle  humanity,  from  his  bleared  and 
moist  eyes.  It  was  a  look  more  intimate  with 
me,  and  more  explanatory,  than  any  words  of 
his  could  have  been  if  he  had  tried  to  his  dying 
day.  It  was  more  significant  than  any  Rice  of 
those  parts  could  even  comprehend,  and  long 
anticipated  this  man's  culture,  —  a  glance  of 
his  pure  genius,  which  did  not  much  enlighten 
him,  but  did  impress  and  rule  him  for  the  mo 
ment,  and  faintly  constrain  his  voice  and  man- 


272  A   WEEK 

ner.  He  cheerfully  led  the  way  to  my  apart 
ment,  stepping  over  the  limbs  of  his  men,  who 
were  asleep  on  the  floor  in  an  intervening  cham 
ber,  and  showed  me  a  clean  and  comfortable 
bed.  For  many  pleasant  hours  after  the  house 
hold  was  asleep  I  sat  at  the  open  window,  for  it 
was  a  sultry  night,  and  heard  the  little  river 

"  Amongst  the  pumy  stones,  which  seemed  to  plain, 
With  gentle  murmur,  that  his  course  they  did  restrain." 

But  I  arose  as  usual  by  starlight  the  next  morn 
ing,  before  my  host,  or  his  men,  or  even  his 
dogs,  were  awake ;  and,  having  left  a  ninepence 
on  the  counter,  was  already  half-way  over  the 
mountain  with  the  sun  before  they  had  broken 
their  fast. 

Before  I  had  left  the  country  of  my  host, 
while  the  first  rays  of  the  sun  slanted  over  the 
mountains,  as  I  stopped  by  the  wayside  to  gather 
some  raspberries,  a  very  old  man,  not  far  from 
a  hundred,  came  along  with  a  milking-pail  in 
his  hand,  and  turning  aside  began  to  pluck  the 
berries  near  me :  — 

"  His  reverend  locks 
In  comelye  curies  did  wave ; 
And  on  his  aged  temples  grew 
The  blossoms  of  the  grave." 

But  when  I  inquired  the  way,  he  answered  in  a 
low,  rough  voice,  without  looking  up  or  seeming 
to  regard  my  presence,  which  I  imputed  to  his 


TUESDAY  273 

years;  and  presently,  muttering  to  himself,  he 
proceeded  to  collect  his  cows  in  a  neighboring 
pasture ;  and  when  he  had  again  returned  near 
to  the  wayside,  he  suddenly  stopped,  while  his 
cows  went  on  before,  and,  uncovering  his  head, 
prayed  aloud  in  the  cool  morning  air,  as  if  he 
had  forgotten  this  exercise  before,  for  his  daily 
bread,  and  also  that  He  who  letteth  his  rain  fall 
on  the  just  and  on  the  unjust,  and  without 
whom  not  a  sparrow  f  alleth  to  the  ground,  would 
not  neglect  the  stranger  (meaning  me),  and 
with  even  more  direct  and  personal  applications, 
though  mainly  according  to  the  long-established 
formula  common  to  lowlanders  and  the  inhabit 
ants  of  mountains.  When  he  had  done  pray 
ing,  I  made  bold  to  ask  him  if  he  had  any  cheese 
in  his  hut  which  he  would  sell  me,  but  he  an 
swered  without  looking  up,  and  in  the  same  low 
and  repulsive  voice  as  before,  that  they  did  not 
make  any,  and  went  to  milking.  It  is  written, 
"  The  stranger  who  turneth  away  from  a  house 
with  disappointed  hopes,  leaveth  there  his  own 
offenses,  and  departeth,  taking  with  him  all  the 
good  actions  of  the  owner." 

Being  now  fairly  in  the  stream  of  this  week's 
commerce,  we  began  to  meet  with  boats  more 
frequently,  and  hailed  them  from  time  to  time 
with  the  freedom  of  sailors.  The  boatmen  ap- 


274  A   WEEK 

peared  to  lead  an  easy  and  contented  life,  and 
we  thought  that  we  should  prefer  their  employ 
ment  ourselves  to  many  professions  which  are 
much  more  sought  after.  They  suggested  how 
few  circumstances  are  necessary  to  the  well-be 
ing  and  serenity  of  man,  how  indifferent  all  em 
ployments  are,  and  that  any  may  seem  noble 
and  poetic  to  the  eyes  of  men,  if  pursued  with 
sufficient  buoyancy  and  freedom.  With  liberty 
and  pleasant  weather,  the  simplest  occupation, 
any  unquestioned  country  mode  of  life  which 
detains  us  in  the  open  air,  is  alluring.  The 
man  who  picks  peas  steadily  for  a  living  is  more 
than  respectable,  he  is  even  envied  by  his  shop 
worn  neighbors.  We  are  as  happy  as  the  birds 
when  our  Good  Genius  permits  us  to  pursue  any 
outdoor  work,  without  a  sense  of  dissipation. 
Our  penknife  glitters  in  the  sun;  our  voice  is 
echoed  by  yonder  wood ;  if  an  oar  drops,  we  are 
fain  to  let  it  drop  again. 

The  canal-boat  is  of  very  simple  construction, 
requiring  but  little  ship-timber,  and,  as  we  were 
told,  costs  about  two  hundred  dollars.  They 
are  managed  by  two  men.  In  ascending  the 
stream  they  use  poles  fourteen  or  fifteen  feet 
long,  pointed  with  iron,  walking  about  one  third 
the  length  of  the  boat  from  the  forward  end. 
Going  down,  they  commonly  keep  in  the  middle 
of  the  stream,  using  an  oar  at  each  end;  or  if 


TUESDAY  275 

the  wind  is  favorable  they  raise  their  broad  sail, 
and  have  only  to  steer.  They  commonly  carry 
down  wood  or  bricks,  —  fifteen  or  sixteen  cords 
of  wood,  and  as  many  thousand  bricks,  at  a 
time,  —  and  bring  back  stores  for  the  country, 
consuming  two  or  three  days  each  way  between 
Concord  and  Charlestown.  They  sometimes 
pile  the  wood  so  as  to  leave  a  shelter  in  one  part 
where  they  may  retire  from  the  rain.  One  can 
hardly  imagine  a  more  healthful  employment,  or 
one  more  favorable  to  contemplation  and  the 
observation  of  nature.  Unlike  the  mariner, 
they  have  the  constantly  varying  panorama  of 
the  shore  to  relieve  the  monotony  of  their  labor, 
and  it  seemed  to  us  that  as  they  thus  glided 
noiselessly  from  town  to  town,  with  all  their 
furniture  about  them,  for  their  very  homestead 
is  a  movable,  they  could  comment  on  the  char 
acter  of  the  inhabitants  with  greater  advantage 
and  security  to  themselves  than  the  traveler  in 
a  coach,  who  would  be  unable  to  indulge  in  such 
broadsides  of  wit  and  humor  in  so  small  a  ves 
sel  for  fear  of  the  recoil.  They  are  not  subject 
to  great  exposure,  like  the  lumberers  of  Maine, 
in  any  weather,  but  inhale  the  healthfulest 
breezes,  being  slightly  incumbered  with  cloth 
ing,  frequently  with  the  head  and  feet  bare. 
When  we  met  them  at  noon,  as  they  were  lei 
surely  descending  the  stream,  their  busy  com- 


276  A    WEEK 

merce  did  not  look  like  toil,  but  rather  like 
some  ancient  Oriental  game  still  played  on  a 
large  scale,  as  the  game  of  chess,  for  instance, 
handed  down  to  this  generation.  From  morn 
ing  till  night,  unless  the  wind  is  so  fair  that  his 
single  sail  will  suffice  without  other  labor  than 
steering,  the  boatman  walks  backwards  and  for 
wards  on  the  side  of  his  boat,  now  stooping  with 
his  shoulder  to  the  pole,  then  drawing  it  back 
slowly  to  set  it  again,  meanwhile  moving  stead 
ily  forward  through  an  endless  valley  and  an 
ever-changing  scenery,  now  distinguishing  his 
course  for  a  mile  or  two,  and  now  shut  in  by  a 
sudden  turn  of  the  river  in  a  small  woodland 
lake.  All  the  phenomena  which  surround  him 
are  simple  and  grand,  and  there  is  something 
impressive,  even  majestic,  in  the  very  motion  he 
causes,  which  will  naturally  be  communicated  to 
his  own  character,  and  he  feels  the  slow,  irre 
sistible  movement  under  him  with  pride,  as  if  it 
were  his  own  energy. 

The  news  spread  like  wildfire  among  us 
youths,  when  formerly,  once  in  a  year  or  two, 
one  of  these  boats  came  up  the  Concord  River, 
and  was  seen  stealing  mysteriously  through  the 
meadows  and  past  the  village.  It  came  and 
departed  as  silently  as  a  cloud,  without  noise  or 
dust,  and  was  witnessed  by  few.  One  summer 
day  this  huge  traveler  might  be  seen  moored  at 


TUESDAY  277 

some  meadow's  wharf,  and  another  summer  day 
it  was  not  there.  Where  precisely  it  came 
from,  or  who  these  men  were  who  knew  the 
rocks  and  soundings  better  than  we  who  bathed 
there,  we  could  never  tell.  We  knew  some 
river's  bay  only,  but  they  took  rivers  from  end 
to  end.  They  were  a  sort  of  fabulous  river- 
men  to  us.  It  was  inconceivable  by  what  sort 
of  mediation  any  mere  landsman  could  hold 
communication  with  them.  Would  they  heave 
to,  to  gratify  his  wishes?  No,  it  was  favor 
enough  to  know  faintly  of  their  destination,  or 
the  time  of  their  possible  return.  I  have  seen 
them  in  the  summer,  when  the  stream  ran  low, 
mowing  the  weeds  in  mid-channel,  and  with 
hayers'  jests  cutting  broad  swaths  in  three  feet 
of  water,  that  they  might  make  a  passage  for 
their  scow,  while  the  grass  in  long  windrows 
was  carried  down  the  stream,  undried  by  the 
rarest  hay-weather.  We  admired  unweariedly 
how  their  vessel  would  float,  like  a  huge  chip, 
sustaining  so  many  casks  of  lime,  and  thousands 
of  bricks,  and  such  heaps  of  iron  ore,  with 
wheelbarrows  aboard,  and  that,  when  we  stepped 
on  it,  it  did  not  yield  to  the  pressure  of  our  feet. 
It  gave  us  confidence  in  the  prevalence  of  the 
law  of  buoyancy,  and  we  imagined  to  what  in 
finite  uses  it  might  be  put.  The  men  appeared 
to  lead  a  kind  of  life  on  it,  and  it  was  whispered 


278  A  WEEK 

that  they  slept  aboard.  Some  affirmed  that  it 
carried  sail,  and  that  such  winds  blew  here  as 
filled  the  sails  of  vessels  on  the  ocean;  which 
again  others  much  doubted.  They  had  been 
seen  to  sail  across  our  Fair  Haven  bay  by  lucky 
fishers  who  were  out,  but  unfortunately  others 
were  not  there  to  see.  We  might  then  say  that 
our  river  was  navigable,  — why  not?  In  after 
years  I  read  in  print,  with  no  little  satisfaction, 
that  it  was  thought  by  some  that,  with  a  little 
expense  in  removing  rocks  and  deepening  the 
channel,  "there  might  be  a  profitable  inland 
navigation."  /then  lived  somewhere  to  tell  of. 
Such  is  Commerce,  which  shakes  the  cocoa- 
nut  and  bread-fruit  tree  in  the  remotest  isle, 
and  sooner  or  later  dawns  on  the  duskiest  and 
most  simple-minded  savage.  If  we  may  be  par 
doned  the  digression,  who  can  help  being  af 
fected  at  the  thought  of  the  very  fine  and  slight, 
but  positive  relation,  in  which  the  savage  inhab 
itants  of  some  remote  isle  stand  to  the  mysteri 
ous  white  mariner,  the  child  of  the  sun?  —  as  if 
we  were  to  have  dealings  with  an  animal  higher 
in  the  scale  of  being  than  ourselves.  It  is  a 
barely  recognized  fact  to  the  natives  that  he  ex 
ists,  and  has  his  home  far  away  somewhere,  and 
is  glad  to  buy  their  fresh  fruits  with  his  super 
fluous  commodities.  Under  the  same  catholic 
sun  glances  his  white  ship  over  Pacific  waves 


TUESDAY  279 

into  their  smooth  bays,  and  the  poor  savage's 
paddle  gleams  in  the  air. 

Man's  little  acts  are  grand, 
Beheld  from  land  to  land, 
There  as  they  lie  in  time, 
Within  their  native  clime. 

Ships  with  the  noontide  weigh, 

And  glide  before  its  ray 

To  some  retired  bay, 

Their  haunt, 

Whence,  under  tropic  sun, 

Again  they  run, 

Bearing  gum  Senegal  and  Tragicant 
For  this  was  ocean  meant, 
For  this  the  sun  was  sent, 
And  moon  was  lent, 
And  winds  in  distant  caverns  pent. 

Since  our  voyage  the  railroad  on  the  bank  has 
been  extended,  and  there  is  now  but  little  boat 
ing  on  the  Merrimack.  All  kinds  of  produce 
and  stores  were  formerly  conveyed  by  water, 
but  now  nothing  is  carried  up  the  stream,  and 
almost  wood  and  bricks  alone  are  carried  down, 
and  these  are  also  carried  on  the  railroad.  The 
locks  are  fast  wearing  out,  and  will  soon  be  im 
passable,  since  the  tolls  will  not  pay  the  expense 
of  repairing  them,  and  so  in  a  few  years  there 
will  be  an  end  of  boating  on  this  river.  The 
boating  at  present  is  principally  between  Merri 
mack  and  Lowell,  or  Hooksett  and  Manchester. 
They  make  two  or  three  trips  in  a  week,  accord 
ing  to  wind  and  weather,  from  Merrimack  to 


280  A   WEEK 

Lowell  and  back,  about  twenty-five  miles  each 
way.  The  boatman  comes  singing  in  to  shore 
late  at  night,  and  moors  his  empty  boat,  and 
gets  his  supper  and  lodging  in  some  house  near 
at  hand,  and  again  early  in  the  morning,  by 
starlight  perhaps,  he  pushes  away  upstream, 
and,  by  a  shout,  or  the  fragment  of  a  song, 
gives  notice  of  his  approach  to  the  lock-man, 
with  whom  he  is  to  take  his  breakfast.  If  he 
gets  up  to  his  wood-pile  before  noon  he  proceeds 
to  load  his  boat,  with  the  help  of  his  single 
"hand,"  and  is  on  his  way  down  again  before 
night.  When  he  gets  to  Lowell  he  unloads  his 
boat,  and  gets  his  receipt  for  his  cargo,  and, 
having  heard  the  news  at  the  public  house  at 
Middlesex  or  elsewhere,  goes  back  with  his 
empty  boat  and  his  receipt  in  his  pocket  to  the 
owner,  and  to  get  a  new  load.  We  were  fre 
quently  advertised  of  their  approach  by  some 
faint  sound  behind  us,  and  looking  round  saw 
them  a  mile  off,  creeping  stealthily  up  the  side 
of  the  stream  like  alligators.  It  was  pleasant 
to  hail  these  sailors  of  the  Merrimack  from  time 
to  time,  and  learn  the  news  which  circulated 
with  them.  We  imagined  that  the  sun  shining 
on  their  bare  heads  had  stamped  a  liberal  and 
public  character  on  their  most  private  thoughts. 
The  open  and  sunny  interval  still  stretched 
away  from  the  river  sometimes  by  two  or  more 


TUESDAY  281 

terraces,  to  the  distant  hill-country,  and  when 
we  climbed  the  bank,  we  commonly  found  an 
irregular  copse-wood  skirting  the  river,  the 
primitive  having  floated  downstream  long  ago 

to the    "King's    navy."     Sometimes    we 

saw  the  river-road  a  quarter  or  half  a  mile  dis 
tant,  and  the  particolored  Concord  stage,  with 
its  cloud  of  dust,  its  van  of  earnest  traveling 
faces,  and  its  rear  of  dusty  trunks,  reminding 
us  that  the  country  had  its  places  of  rendezvous 
for  restless  Yankee  men.  There  dwelt  along  at 
considerable  distances  on  this  interval  a  quiet 
agricultural  and  pastoral  people,  with  every 
house  its  well,  as  we  sometimes  proved,  and 
every  household,  though  never  so  still  and  re 
mote  it  appeared  in  the  noontide,  its  dinner 
about  these  times.  There  they  lived  on,  those 
New  England  people,  farmer  lives,  father  and 
grandfather  and  great-grandfather,  on  and  on 
without  noise,  keeping  up  tradition,  and  expect 
ing,  beside  fair  weather  and  abundant  harvests, 
we  did  not  learn  what.  They  were  contented 
to  live,  since  it  was  so  contrived  for  them,  and 
where  their  lines  had  fallen. 

Our  uninquiring  corpses  lie  more  low 
Than  our  life's  curiosity  doth  go. 

Yet  these  men  had  no  need  to  travel  to  be  as 
wise  as  Solomon'  in  all  his  glory,  so  similar  are 
the  lives  of  men  in  all  countries,  and  fraught 


282  A   WEEK 

with  the  same  homely  experiences.  One  half 
the  world  knows  how  the  other  half  lives. 

About  noon  we  passed  a  small  village  in  Mer- 
rimack  at  Thornton's  Ferry,  and  tasted  of  the 
waters  of  Naticook  Brook  on  the  same  side, 
where  French  and  his  companions,  whose  grave 
we  saw  in  Dunstable,  were  ambuscaded  by  the 
Indians.  The  humble  village  of  Litchfield,  with 
its  steepleless  meeting-house,  stood  on  the  oppo 
site  or  east  bank,  near  where  a  dense  grove  of 
willows  backed  by  maples  skirted  the  shore. 
There  also  we  noticed  some  shagbark-trees, 
which,  as  they  do  not  grow  in  Concord,  were  as 
strange  a  sight  to  us  as  the  palm  would  be, 
whose  fruit  only  we  have  seen.  Our  course  now 
curved  gracefully  to  the  north,  leaving  a  low, 
flat  shore  on  the  Merrimack  side,  which  forms 
a  sort  of  harbor  for  canal-boats.  We  observed 
some  fair  elms  and  particularly  large  and  hand 
some  white-maples  standing  conspicuously  on 
this  interval ;  and  the  opposite  shore,  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  below,  was  covered  with  young  elms 
and  maples  six  inches  high,  which  had  probably 
sprung  from  the  seeds  which  had  been  washed 
across. 

Some  carpenters  were  at  work  here  mending 
a  scow  on  the  green  and  sloping  bank.  The 
strokes  of  their  mallets  echoed  from  shore  to 
shore,  and  up  and  down  the  river,  and  their 


TUESDA  Y  283 

tools  gleamed  in  the  sun  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  us,  and  we  realized  that  boat-building  was 
as  ancient  and  honorable  an  art  as  agriculture, 
and  that  there  might  be  a  naval  as  well  as  a 
pastoral  life.  The  whole  history  of  commerce 
was  made  manifest  in  that  scow  turned  bottom 
upward  on  the  shore.  Thus  did  men  begin  to 
go  down  upon  the  sea  in  ships ;  quceque  diu  ste- 
terant  in  montibus  altis,  Fluctibus  ignotis  in- 
sultavere  carince;  "and  keels  which  had  long 
stood  on  high  mountains  careered  insultingly 
(insultavere)  over  unknown  waves." 1 

We  thought  that  it  would  be  well  for  the 
traveler  to  build  his  boat  on  the  bank  of  a 
stream,  instead  of  finding  a  ferry  or  a  bridge. 
In  the  Adventures  of  Henry  the  fur-trader,  it 
is  pleasant  to  read  that  when  with  his  Indians 
he  reached  the  shore  of  Ontario,  they  consumed 
two  days  in  making  two  canoes  of  the  bark  of 
the  elm-tree,  in  which  to  transport  themselves 
to  Fort  Niagara.  It  is  a  worthy  incident  in  a 
journey,  a  delay  as  good  as  much  rapid  travel 
ing.  A  good  share  of  our  interest  in  Xeno- 
phon's  story  of  his  retreat  is  in  the  manoeuvres 
to  get  the  army  safely  over  the  rivers,  whether 
on  rafts  of  logs  or  fagots,  or  sheep-skins  blown 
up.  And  where  could  they  better  afford  to 
tarry  meanwhile  than  on  the  banks  of  a  river  ? 

1  Ovid,  Met.  I.  133. 


284  A   WEEK 

As  we  glided  past  at  a  distance,  these  out 
door  workmen  appeared  to  have  added  some 
dignity  to  their  labor  by  its  very  publicness.  It 
was  a  part  of  the  industry  of  nature,  like  the 
work  of  hornets  and  mud-wasps. 

The  waves  slowly  beat, 
Just  to  keep  the  noon  sweet, 
And  no  sound  is  floated  o'er, 
Save  the  mallet  on  shore, 
Which  echoing  on  high 
Seems  a-calking  the  sky. 

The  haze,  the  sun's  dust  of  travel,  had  a  Le 
thean  influence  on  the  land  and  its  inhabitants, 
and  all  creatures  resigned  themselves  to  float 
upon  the  inappreciable  tides  of  nature. 

Woof  of  the  sun,  ethereal  gauze, 
Woven  of  Nature's  richest  stuffs, 
Visible  heat,  air-water,  and  dry  sea, 
Last  conquest  of  the  eye  ; 
Toil  of  the  day  displayed,  sun-dust, 
Aerial  surf  upon  the  shores  of  earth, 
Ethereal  estuary,  frith  of  light, 
Breakers  of  air,  billows  of  heat, 
Fine  summer  spray  on  inland  seas ; 
Bird  of  the  sun,  transparent-winged 
Owlet  of  noon,  soft-pinioned, 
From  heath  or  stubble  rising  without  song ; 
Establish  thy  serenity  o'er  the  fields. 

The  routine  which  is  in  the  sunshine  and  the 
finest  days,  as  that  which  has  conquered  and 
prevailed,  commends  itself  to  us  by  its  very 
antiquity  and  apparent  solidity  and  necessity. 


TUESDAY  285 

Our  weakness  needs  it,  and  our  strength  uses 
it.  We  cannot  draw  on  our  boots  without  brac 
ing  ourselves  against  it.  If  there  were  but  one 
erect  and  solid  standing  tree  in  the  woods,  all 
creatures  would  go  to  rub  against  it  and  make 
sure  of  their  footing.  During  the  many  hours 
which  we  spend  in  this  waking  sleep,  the  hand 
stands  still  on  the  face  of  the  clock,  and  we 
grow  like  corn  in  the  night.  Men  are  as  busy 
as  the  brooks  or  bees,  and  postpone  everything 
to  their  business ;  as  carpenters  discuss  politics 
between  the  strokes  of  the  hammer  while  they 
are  shingling  a  roof. 

This  noontide  was  a  fit  occasion  to  make 
some  pleasant  harbor,  and  there  read  the  journal 
of  some  voyageur  like  ourselves,  not  too  moral 
nor  inquisitive,  and  which  would  not  disturb 
the  noon ;  or  else  some  old  classic,  the  very 
flower  of  all  reading,  which  we  had  postponed 
to  such  a  season 

"Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure." 

But,  alas,  our  chest,  like  the  cabin  of  a  coaster, 
contained  only  its  well-thumbed  "Navigator" 
for  all  literature,  and  we  were  obliged  to  draw 
on  our  memory  for  these  things. 

We  naturally  remembered  Alexander  Henry's 
Adventures  here,  as  a  sort  of  classic  among 


286  A  WEEK 

books  of  American  travel.  It  contains  scenery 
and  rough  sketching  of  men  and  incidents 
enough  to  inspire  poets  for  many  years,  and 
to  my  fancy  is  as  full  of  sounding  names  as 
any  page  of  history,  —  Lake  Winnipeg,  Hud 
son's  Bay,  Ottaway,  and  portages  innumerable ; 
Chippeways,  Gens  de  Terres,  Les  Pilleurs,  The 
Weepers;  with  reminiscences  of  Hearne's  jour 
ney,  and  the  like ;  an  immense  and  shaggy  but 
sincere  country,  summer  and  winter,  adorned 
with  chains  of  lakes  and  rivers,  covered  with 
snows,  with  hemlocks,  and  fir-trees.  There  is 
a  naturalness,  an  unpretending  and  cold  life  in 
this  traveler,  as  in  a  Canadian  winter,  what  life 
was  preserved  through  low  temperatures  and 
frontier  dangers  by  furs  within  a  stout  heart. 
He  has  truth  and  moderation  worthy  of  the  fa 
ther  of  history,  which  belong  only  to  an  intimate 
experience,  and  he  does  not  defer  too  much  to 
literature.  The  unlearned  traveler  may  quote 
his  single  line  from  the  poets  with  as  good  right 
as  the  scholar.  He  too  may  speak  of  the  stars, 
for  he  sees  them  shoot  perhaps  when  the  astron 
omer  does  not.  The  good  sense  of  this  author 
is  very  conspicuous.  He  is  a  traveler  who  does 
not  exaggerate,  but  writes  for  the  information 
of  his  readers,  for  science,  and  for  history. 
His  story  is  told  with  as  much  good  faith  and 
directness  as  if  it  were  a  report  to  his  brother 


TUESDAY  287 

traders,  or  the  Directors  of  the  Hudson's  Bay 
Company,  and  is  fitly  dedicated  to  Sir  Joseph 
Banks.  It  reads  like  the  argument  to  a  great 
poem  on  the  primitive  state  of  the  country  and 
its  inhabitants,  and  the  reader  imagines  what 
in  each  case,  with  the  invocation  of  the  Muse, 
might  be  sung,  and  leaves  off  with  suspended 
interest,  as  if  the  full  account  were  to  follow. 
In  what  school  was  this  fur-trader  educated? 
He  seems  to  travel  the  immense  snowy  country 
with  such  purpose  only  as  the  reader  who  ac 
companies  him,  and  to  the  latter's  imagination, 
it  is,  as  it  were,  momentarily  created  to  be  the 
scene  of  his  adventures.  What  is  most  inter 
esting  and  valuable  in  it,  however,  is  not  the 
materials  for  the  history  of  Pontiac,  or  Brad- 
dock,  or  the  Northwest,  which  it  furnishes ;  not 
the  annals  of  the  country,  but  the  natural  facts, 
or  perennials,  which  are  ever  without  date. 
When  out  of  history  the  truth  shall  be  ex 
tracted,  it  will  have  shed  its  dates  like  withered 
leaves. 

The  Souhegan,  or  Crooked  River,  as  some 
translate  it,  comes  in  from  the  west  about  a 
mile  and  a  half  above  Thornton's  Ferry.  Bab- 
boosuck  Brook  empties  into  it  near  its  mouth. 
There  are  said  to  be  some  of  the  finest  water 
privileges  in  the  country  still  unimproved  on  the 


288  A   WEEK 

former  stream,  at  a  short  distance  from  the 
Merrimack.  One  spring  morning,  March  22, 
in  the  year  1677,  an  incident  occurred  on  the 
banks  of  the  river  here,  which  is  interesting  to 
us  as  a  slight  memorial  of  an  interview  between 
two  ancient  tribes  of  men,  one  of  which  is  now 
extinct,  while  the  other,  though  it  is  still  repre 
sented  by  a  miserable  remnant,  has  long  since 
disappeared  from  its  ancient  hunting-grounds. 
A  Mr.  James  Parker,  at  "Mr.  Hinchmanne's 
farme  ner  Meremack,"  wrote  thus  "to  the 
Honred  Governer  and  Council  at  Bostown, 
Hast,  Post  Hast:"  — 

"Sagamore  Wanalancet  come  this  morning  to 
informe  me,  and  then  went  to  Mr.  Tyng's  to  in- 
forme  him,  that  his  son  being  on  ye  other  sid  of 
Meremack  river  over  against  Souhegan  upon  the 
22  day  of  this  instant,  about  tene  of  the  clock 
in  the  morning,  he  discovered  15  Indians  on 
this  sid  the  river,  which  he  soposed  to  be  Mo- 
hokes  by  ther  spech.  He  called  to  them ;  they 
answered  but  he  could  not  understand  ther 
spech ;  and  he  having  a  conow  ther  in  the  river, 
he  went  to  breck  his  conow  that  they  might  not 
have  ani  ues  of  it.  In  the  mean  time  they  shot 
about  thirty  guns  at  him,  and  he  being  much 
frighted  fled,  and  come  home  forthwith  to  Na- 
hamcock  [Pawtucket  Falls  or  Lowell],  wher  ther 
wigowames  now  stand." 


TUESDA  Y  289 

Penacooks  and  Mohawks!  ubique  gentium 
sunt?  In  the  year  1670,  a  Mohawk  warrior 
scalped  a  Naamkeak  or  else  a  Wamesit  Indian 
maiden  near  where  Lowell  now  stands.  She, 
however,  recovered.  Even  as  late  as  1685, 
John  Hogkins,  a  Penacook  Indian,  who  de 
scribes  his  grandfather  as  having  lived  "  at  place 
called  Malamake  rever,  other  name  chef  Natuk- 
kog  and  Panukkog,  that  one  rever  great  many 
names,"  wrote  thus  to  the  governor:  — 

"May  15th,  1685. 
"Honor  governor  my  friend,  — 

"You  my  friend  I  desire  your  worship  and 
your  power,  because  I  hope  you  can  do  som 
great  matters  this  one.  I  am  poor  and  naked 
and  I  have  no  men  at  my  place  because  I  afraid 
allwayes  Mohogs  he  will  kill  me  every  day  and 
night.  If  your  worship  when  please  pray  help 
me  you  no  let  Mohogs  kill  me  at  my  place  at 
Malamake  river  called  Pannukkog  and  Natuk- 
kog,  I  will  submit  your  worship  and  your 
power.  And  now  I  want  pouder  and  such  al- 
minishon  shatt  and  guns,  because  I  have  forth 
at  my  horn  and  I  plant  theare. 

"This  all  Indian  hand,  but  pray  you  do  con 
sider  your  humble  servant, 

JOHN  HOGKINS." 

Signed  also  by  Simon  Detogkom,  King  Hary, 


290  A   WEEK 

Sam  Linis,  Mr.  Jorge  Rodunnonukgus,  John 
Owamosimmin,  and  nine  other  Indians,  with 
their  marks  against  their  names. 

But  now,  one  hundred  and  fifty-four  years 
having  elapsed  since  the  date  of  this  letter,  we 
went  unalarmed  on  our  way  without  "  breaking  " 
our  "conow,"  reading  the  New  England  Gaz 
etteer,  and  seeing  no  traces  of  "Mohogs"  on 
the  banks. 

The  Souhegan,  though  a  rapid  river,  seemed 
to-day  to  have  borrowed  its  character  from  the 
noon. 

Where  gleaming  fields  of  haze 
Meet  the  voyageur's  gaze, 
And  above,  the  heated  air 
Seems  to  make  a  river  there, 
The  pines  stand  up  with  pride 
By  the  Souhegan's  side, 
And  the  hemlock  and  the  larch 
With  their  triumphal  arch 
Are  waving  o'er  its  march 

To  the  sea. 

No  wind  stirs  its  waves, 
But  the  spirits  of  the  braves 

Hov'ring  o'er, 
Whose  antiquated  graves 
Its  still  water  laves 

On  the  shore. 

With  an  Indian's  stealthy  tread 
It  goes  sleeping  in  its  bed, 
Without  joy  or  grief, 
Or  the  rustle  of  a  leaf, 
Without  a  ripple  or  a  billow, 
Or  the  sigh  of  a  willow, 


TUESDAY  291 

From  the  Lyndeboro'  hills 

^To  the  Merrimack  mills. 

With  a  louder  din 

Did  its  current  begin, 

When  melted  the  snow 

On  the  far  mountain's  brow. 

And  the  drops  came  together 

In  that  rainy  weather. 

Experienced  river, 

Hast  thou  flowed  forever  ? 

Souhegan  soundeth  old, 

But  the  half  is  not  told, 

What  names  hast  thou  borne, 

In  the  ages  far  gone, 

When  the  Xanthus  and  Meander 

Commenced  to  wander, 

Ere  the  black  bear  haunted 

Thy  red  forest-floor, 
Or  Nature  had  planted 

The  pines  by  thy  shore  ? 

During  the  heat  of  the  day,  we  rested  on  a 
large  island  a  mile  above  the  mouth  of  this 
river,  pastured  by  a  herd  of  cattle,  with  steep 
banks  and  scattered  elms  and  oaks,  and  a  suf 
ficient  channel  for  canal  -  boats  on  each  side. 
When  we  made  a  fire  to  boil  some  rice  for  our 
dinner,  the  flames  spreading  amid  the  dry  grass, 
and  the  smoke  curling  silently  upward  and  cast 
ing  grotesque  shadows  on  the  ground,  seemed 
phenomena  of  the  noon,  and  we  fancied  that  we 
progressed  up  the  stream  without  effort,  and  as 
naturally  as  the  wind  and  tide  went  down,  not 
outraging  the  calm  days  by  unworthy  bustle  or 


292  A  WEEK 

impatience.  The  woods  on  the  neighboring 
shore  were  alive  with  pigeons,  which  were  mov 
ing  south,  looking  for  mast,  but  now,  like  our 
selves,  spending  their  noon  in  the  shade.  We 
could  hear  the  slight,  wiry,  winnowing  sound  of 
their  wings  as  they  changed  their  roosts  from 
time  to  time,  and  their  gentle  and  tremulous 
cooing.  They  sojourned  with  us  during  the 
noontide,  greater  travelers  far  than  we.  You 
may  frequently  discover  a  single  pair  sitting 
upon  the  lower  branches  of  the  white-pine  in 
the  depths  of  the  wood,  at  this  hour  of  the  day, 
so  silent  and  solitary,  and  with  such  a  hermit- 
like  appearance,  as  if  they  had  never  strayed 
beyond  its  skirts,  while  the  acorn  which  was 
gathered  in  the  forests  of  Maine  is  still  undi 
gested  in  their  crops.  We  obtained  one  of 
these  handsome  birds,  which  lingered  too  long 
upon  its  perch,  and  plucked  and  broiled  it  here 
with  some  other  game,  to  be  carried  along  for 
our  supper;  for,  beside  the  provisions  which 
we  carried  with  us,  we  depended  mainly  on  the 
river  and  forest  for  our  supply.  It  is  true,  it 
did  not  seem  to  be  putting  this  bird  to  its  right 
use  to  pluck  off  its  feathers,  and  extract  its  en 
trails,  and  broil  its  carcass  on  the  coals ;  but  we 
heroically  persevered,  nevertheless,  waiting  for 
further  information.  The  same  regard  for  Na 
ture  which  excited  our  sympathy  for  her  crea- 


TUESDAY  293 

tures  nerved  our  hands  to  carry  through  what 
we  had  begun.  For  we  would  be  honorable  to 
the  party  we  deserted ;  we  would  fulfill  fate,  and 
so  at  length,  perhaps,  detect  the  secret  inno 
cence  of  these  incessant  tragedies  which  Heaven 
allows. 

"  Too  quick  resolves  do  resolution  wrong, 
What,  part  so  soon  to  be  divorced  so  long  ? 
Things  to  be  done  are  long  to  be  debated  ; 
Heaven  is  not  day'd,  Repentance  is  not  dated." 

We  are  double-edged  blades,  and  every  time  we 
whet  our  virtue  the  return  stroke  straps  our 
vice.  Where  is  the  skillful  swordsman  who  can 
give  clean  wounds,  and  not  rip  up  his  work  with 
the  other  edge? 

Nature  herself  has  not  provided  the  most 
graceful  end  for  her  creatures.  What  becomes 
of  all  these  birds  that  people  the  air  and  forest 
for  our  solacement  ?  The  sparrows  seem  always 
chipper,  never  infirm.  We  do  not  see  their 
bodies  lie  about.  Yet  there  is  a  tragedy  at  the 
end  of  each  one  of  their  lives.  They  must  per 
ish  miserably;  not  one  of  them  is  translated. 
True,  "not  a  sparrow  falleth  to  the  ground 
without  our  Heavenly  Father's  knowledge,"  but 
they  do  fall,  nevertheless. 

The  carcasses  of  some  poor  squirrels,  how 
ever,  the  same  that  frisked  so  merrily  in  the 
morning,  which  we  had  skinned  and  emboweled 


294  A  WEEK 

for  our  dinner,  we  abandoned  in  disgust,  with 
tardy  humanity,  as  too  wretched  a  resource  for 
any  but  starving  men.  It  was  to  perpetuate 
the  practice  of  a  barbarous  era.  If  they  had 
been  larger,  our  crime  had  been  less.  Their 
small  red  bodies,  little  bundles  of  red  tissue, 
mere  gobbets  of  venison,  would  not  have  "fat 
tened  fire."  With  a  sudden  impulse  we  threw 
them  away,  and  washed  our  hands,  and  boiled 
some  rice  for  our  dinner.  "  Behold  the  differ 
ence  between  the  one  who  eateth  flesh,  and  him 
to  whom  it  belonged !  The  first  hath  a  momen 
tary  enjoyment,  whilst  the  latter  is  deprived  of 
existence !  "  "  Who  would  commit  so  great  a 
crime  against  a  poor  animal,  who  is  fed  only  by 
the  herbs  which  grow  wild  in  the  woods,  and 
whose  belly  is  burnt  up  with  hunger? "  We 
remembered  a  picture  of  mankind  in  the  hunter 
age,  chasing  hares  down  the  mountains ;  O  me 
miserable !  Yet  sheep  and  oxen  are  but  larger 
squirrels,  whose  hides  are  saved  and  meat  is 
salted,  whose  souls  perchance  are  not  so  large 
in  proportion  to  their  bodies. 

There  should  always  be  some  flowering  and 
maturing  of  the  fruits  of  nature  in  the  cooking 
process.  Some  simple  dishes  recommend  them 
selves  to  our  imaginations  as  well  as  palates. 
In  parched  corn,  for  instance,  there  is  a  mani 
fest  sympathy  between  the  bursting  seed  and 


TUESDAY  295 

the  more  perfect  developments  of  vegetable  life. 
It  is  a  perfect  flower  with  its  petals,  like  the 
houstonia  or  anemone.  On  my  warm  hearth 
these  cerealian  blossoms  expanded;  here  is  the 
bank  whereon  they  grew.  Perhaps  some  such 
visible  blessing  would  always  attend  the  simple 
and  wholesome  repast. 

Here  was  that  "pleasant  harbor"  which  we 
had  sighed  for,  where  the  weary  voyageur  could 
read  the  journal  of  some  other  sailor,  whose 
bark  had  ploughed,  perchance,  more  famous 
and  classic  seas.  At  the  tables  of  the  gods, 
after  feasting  follow  music  and  song;  we  will 
recline  now  under  these  island  trees,  and  for 
our  minstrel  call  on 

ANACREON. 

"  Nor  has  he  ceased  his  charming  song,  for  still  that  lyre, 
Though  he  is  dead,  sleeps  not  in  Hades." 1 

I  lately  met  with  an  old  volume  from  a  Lon 
don  bookshop,  containing  the  Greek  Minor 
Poets,  and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  read  once  more 
only  the  words,  Orpheus,  Linus,  Musaeus,  — 
those  faint  poetic  sounds  and  echoes  of  a  name, 
dying  away  on  the  ears  of  us  modern  men ;  and 
those  hardly  more  substantial  sounds,  Mimner- 
mus,  Ibycus,  Alcaeus,  Stesichorus,  Menander. 
They  lived  not  in  vain.  We  can  converse  with 

1  Simonides'  Epigram  on  Anacreon. 


296  A  WEEK 

these  bodiless  fames  without  reserve  or  person- 
ality. 

I  know  of  no  studies  so  composing  as  those  of 
the  classical  scholar.  When  we  have  sat  down 
to  them,  life  seems  as  still  and  serene  as  if  it 
were  very  far  off,  and  I  believe  it  is  not  habitu 
ally  seen  from  any  common  platform  so  truly 
and  unexaggerated  as  in  the  light  of  literature. 
In  serene  hours  we  contemplate  the  tour  of  the 
Greek  and  Latin  authors  with  more  pleasure 
than  the  traveler  does  the  fairest  scenery  of 
Greece  or  Italy.  Where  shall  we  find  a  more 
refined  society?  That  highway  down  from 
Homer  and  Hesiod  to  Horace  and  Juvenal  is 
more  attractive  than  the  Appian.  Reading  the 
classics,  or  conversing  with  those  old  Greeks 
and  Latins  in  their  surviving  works,  is  like 
walking  amid  the  stars  and  constellations,  a 
high  and  by  way  serene  to  travel.  Indeed,  the 
true  scholar  will  be  not  a  little  of  an  astronomer 
in  his  habits.  Distracting  cares  will  not  be 
lowed  to  obstruct  the  field  of  his  vision,  for  the 
higher  regions  of  literature,  like  astronomy,  are, 
above  storm  and  darkness. 

But  passing  by  these  rumors  of  bards,  let  us 
pause  for  a  moment  at  the  Teian  poet. 

There  is  something  strangely  modern  about 
him.     He  is  very  easily  turned  into  English. 


TUESDAY  297 

Is  it  that  our  lyric  poets  have  resounded  but 
that  lyre,  which  would  sound  only  light  sub 
jects,  and  which  Simonides  tells  us  does  not 
sleep  in  Hades?  His  odes  are  like  gems  of 
pure  ivory.  They  possess  an  ethereal  and 
evanescent  beauty  like  summer  evenings,  o  xpj 
ere  voelv  voov  avflei,  —  which  you  must  perceive  with 
the  flower  of  the  mind,  —  and  show  how  slight 
a  beauty  could  be  expressed.  You  have  to  con 
sider  them,  as  the  stars  of  lesser  magnitude, 
with  the  side  of  the  eye,  and  look  aside  from 
them  to  behold  them.  They  charm  us  by  their 
serenity  and  freedom  from  exaggeration  and 
passion,  and  by  a  certain  flower-like  beauty, 
which  does  not  propose  itself,  but  must  be  ap 
proached  and  studied  like  a  natural  object. 
But  perhaps  their  chief  merit  consists  in  the 
lightness  and  yet  security  of  their  tread,  — 

"  The  young  and  tender  stalk 
Ne'er  bends  when  they  do  walk." 

True,  our  nerves  are  never  strung  by  them ; 
it  is  too  constantly  the  sound  of  the  lyre,  and 
never  the  note  of  the  trumpet;  but  they  are 
not  gross,  as  has  been  presumed,  but  always 
elevated  above  the  sensual. 

These  are  some  of  the  best  that  have  come 
down  to  us. 


298  A  WEEK 

ON  HIS  LYRE. 

I  wish  to  sing  the  Atridae, 

And  Cadmus  I  wish  to  sing ; 

But  my  lyre  sounds 

Only  love  with  its  chords. 

Lately  I  changed  the  strings 

And  all  the  lyre  ; 

And  I  began  to  sing  the  labors 

Of  Hercules  ;  but  my  lyre 

Resounded  loves. 

Farewell,  henceforth,  for  me, 

Heroes !  for  my  lyre 

Sings  only  loves. 


TO  A  SWALLOW. 

Thou  indeed,  dear  swallow, 
Yearly  going  and  coming, 
In  summer  weavest  thy  nest, 
And  in  winter  go'st  disappearing 
Either  to  Nile  or  to  Memphis. 
But  Love  always  weaveth 
His  nest  in  my  heart.  .  . 


ON  A  SILVER  CUP. 

Turning  the  silver, 

Vulcan,  make  for  me, 

Not  indeed  a  panoply, 

For  what  are  battles  to  me  ? 

But  a  hollow  cup, 

As  deep  as  thou  canst. 

And  make  for  me  in  it 

Neither  stars,  nor  wagons, 

Nor  sad  Orion ; 

What  are  the  Pleiades  to  me  ? 

What  the  shining  Bootes  ? 


TUESDAY  299 

Make  vines  for  me, 

And  clusters  of  grapes  in  it, 

And  of  gold  Love  and  Bathyllua 

Treading  the  grapes 

With  the  fair  Lyseus. 

ON  HIMSELF. 

Thou  sing'st  the  affairs  of  Thebes, 

And  he  the  battles  of  Troy, 

But  I  of  my  own  defeats. 

No  horse  have  wasted  me, 

Nor  foot,  nor  ships ; 

But  a  new  and  different  host, 

From  eyes  smiting  me. 

TO  A  DOVE. 

Lovely  dove, 

Whence,  whence  dost  thou  fly  ? 

Whence,  running  on  air, 

Dost  thou  waft  and  diffuse 

So  many  sweet  ointments  ? 

Who  art  ?     What  thy  errand  ?  — 

Anacreon  sent  me 

To  a  boy,  to  Bathyllus, 

Who  lately  is  ruler  and  tyrant  of  all. 

Cythere  has  sold  me 

For  one  little  song, 

And  I  'm  doing  this  service 

For  Anacreon. 

And  now,  as  you  see, 

I  bear  letters  from  him. 

And  he  says  that  directly 

He  '11  make  me  free, 

But  though  he  release  me, 

His  slave  will  I  tarry  with  him. 

For  why  should  I  fly 


300  A   WEEK 


Over  mountains  and  fields, 

And  perch  upon  trees, 

Eating  some  wild  thing  ? 

Now  indeed  I  eat  bread, 

Plucking  it  from  the  hands 

Of  Anacreon  himself ; 

And  he  gives  me  to  drink 

The  wine  which  he  tastea 

And  drinking,  I  dance, 

And  shadow  my  master's 

Face  with  my  wings  ; 

And,  going  to  rest, 

On  the  lyre  itself  I  sleep. 

That  is  all ;  get  thee  gone. 

Thou  hast  made  me  more  talkative, 

Man,  than  a  crow. 

ON  LOVE. 

Love  walking  swiftly, 

With  hyacinthine  staff, 

Bade  me  to  take  a  run  with  him ; 

And  hastening  through  swift  torrents, 

And  woody  places,  and  over  precipices, 

A  water-snake  stung  me. 

And  my  heart  leaped  up  to 

My  mouth,  and  I  should  have  fainted ; 

But  Love,  fanning  my  brows 

With  his  soft  wings,  said, 

Surely,  thou  art  not  able  to  love. 

ON  WOMEN. 

Nature  has  given  horns 
To  bulls,  and  hoofs  to  horses, 
Swiftness  to  hares, 
To  lions  yawning  teeth, 
To  fishes  swimming, 


TUESDAY  301 

To  birds  flight, 

To  men  wisdom. 

For  woman  she  had  nothing  beside ; 

What  then  does  she  give  ?     Beauty,  — 

Instead  of  all  shields, 

Instead  of  all  spears ; 

And  she  conquers  even  iron 

And  fire,  who  is  beautiful. 

ON  LOVERS. 

Horses  have  the  mark 

Of  fire  on  their  sides, 

And  some  have  distinguished 

The  Parthian  men  by  their  crests  ; 

So  I,  seeing  lovers,  . 

Know  them  at  once, 

For  they  have  a  certain  slight 

Brand  on  their  hearts. 

TO  A  SWALLOW. 

What  dost  thou  wish  me  to  do  to  thee,  — 

What,  thou  loquacious  swallow  ? 

Dost  thou  wish  me  taking  thee 

Thy  light  pinions  to  clip  ? 

Or  rather  to  pluck  out 

Thy  tongue  from  within, 

As  that  Tereus  did  ? 

Why  with  thy  notes  in  the  dawn 

Hast  thou  plundered  Bathyllus 

From  my  beautiful  dreams  ? 

TO  A  COLT. 

Thracian  colt,  why  at  me 

Looking  aslant  with  thy  eyes, 

Dost  thou  cruelly  flee, 

And  think  that  I  know  nothing  wise  ? 


302  A   WEEK 

Know  I  could  well 
Put  the  bridle  on  thee, 
And  holding1  the  reins,  turn 
Round  the  bounds  of  the  course. 
But  now  thou  browsest  the  meads, 
And  gamboling  lightly  dost  play, 
For  thou  hast  no  skillful  horseman 
Mounted  upon  thy  back. 

CUPID  WOUNDED. 

Love  once  among  roses 

Saw  not 

A  sleeping  bee,  but  was  stung- ; 

And  being  wounded  in  the  finger 

Of  his  hand,  cried  for  pain. 

Running  as  well  as  flying 

To  the  beautiful  Venus, 

I  am  killed,  mother,  said  he, 

I  am  killed,  and  I  die. 

A  little  serpent  has  stung  me, 

Winged,  which  they  call 

A  bee, —  the  husbandmen. 

And  she  said,  If  the  sting 

Of  a  bee  afflicts  you, 

How,  think  you,  are  they  afflicted, 

Love,  whom  you  smite  ? 


Late  in  the  afternoon,  for  we  had  lingered 
long  on  the  island,  we  raised  our  sail  for  the 
first  time,  and  for  a  short  hour  the  southwest 
wind  was  our  ally;  but  it  did  not  please  Hea 
ven  to  abet  us  long.  With  one  sail  raised  we 
swept  slowly  up  the  eastern  side  of  the  stream, 
steering  clear  of  the  rocks,  while,  from  the  top 


TUESDAY  303 

of  a  hill  which  formed  the  opposite  bank,  some 
lumberers  were  rolling  down  timber  to  be  rafted 
down  the  stream.  We  could  see  their  axes 
and  levers  gleaming  in  the  sun,  and  the  logs 
came  down  with  a  dust  and  a  rumbling  sound, 
which  was  reverberated  through  the  woods  be 
yond  us  on  our  side,  like  the  roar  of  artillery. 
But  Zephyr  soon  took  us  out  of  sight  and  hear 
ing  of  this  commerce.  Having  passed  Read's 
Ferry,  and  another  island  called  McGaw's 
Island,  we  reached  some  rapids  called  Moore's 
Falls,  and  entered  on  "that  section  of  the  river, 
nine  miles  in  extent,  converted,  by  law,  into 
the  Union  Canal,  comprehending  in  that  space 
six  distinct  falls ;  at  each  of  which,  and  at  sev 
eral  intermediate  places,  work  has  been  done." 
After  passing  Moore's  Falls  by  means  of  locks, 
we  again  had  recourse  to  our  oars,  and  went 
merrily  on  our  way,  driving  the  small  sandpiper 
from  rock  to  rock  before  us,  and  sometimes 
rowing  near  enough  to  a  cottage  on  the  bank, 
though  they  were  few  and  far  between,  to  see 
the  sunflowers,  and  the  seed  vessels  of  the 
poppy,  like  small  goblets  filled  with  the  water 
of  Lethe,  before  the  door,  but  without  disturb 
ing  the  sluggish  household  behind.  Thus  we 
held  on,  sailing  or  dipping  our  way  along  with 
the  paddle  up  this  broad  river,  smooth  and 
placid,  flowing  over  concealed  rocks,  where  we 


304  A   WEEK 

could  see  the  pickerel  lying  low  in  the  transpar 
ent  water,  eager  to  double  some  distant  cape, 
to  make  some  great  bend  as  in  the  life  of  man, 
and  see  what  new  perspective  would  open ;  look 
ing  far  into  a  new  country,  broad  and  serene, 
the  cottages  of  settlers  seen  afar  for  the  first 
time,  yet  with  the  moss  of  a  century  on  their 
roofs,  and  the  third  or  fourth  generation  in  their 
shadows.  Strange  was  it  to  consider  how  the 
sun  and  the  summer,  the  buds  of  spring  and  the 
seared  leaves  of  autumn,  were  related  to  these 
cabins  along  the  shore ;  how  all  the  rays  which 
paint  the  landscape  radiate  from  them,  and  the 
flight  of  the  crow  and  the  gyrations  of  the  hawk 
have  reference  to  their  roofs.  Still  the  ever 
rich  and  fertile  shores  accompanied  us,  fringed 
with  vines  and  alive  with  small  birds  and  frisk 
ing  squirrels,  the  edge  of  some  farmer's  field  or 
widow's  wood-lot,  or  wilder,  perchance,  where 
the  muskrat,  the  little  medicine  of  the  river, 
drags  itself  along  stealthily  over  the  alder-leaves 
and  muscle-shells,  and  man  and  the  memory  of 
man  are  banished  far. 

At  length  the  unwearied,  never-sinking 
shore,  still  holding  on  without  break,  with  its 
cool  copses  and  serene  pasture -grounds,  tempted 
us  to  disembark;  and  we  adventurously  landed 
on  this  remote  coast,  to  survey  it,  without  the 
knowledge  of  any  human  inhabitant  probably  to 


TUESDA  Y  305 

this  day.  But  we  still  remember  the  gnarled 
and  hospitable  oaks  which  grew  even  there  for 
our  entertainment,  and  were  no  strangers  to  us, 
the  lonely  horse  in  his  pasture,  and  the  patient 
cows,  whose  path  to  the  river,  so  judiciously 
chosen  to  overcome  the  difficulties  of  the  way, 
we  followed,  and  disturbed  their  ruminations  in 
the  shade ;  and,  above  all,  the  cool,  free  aspect 
of  the  wild  apple-trees,  generously  proffering 
their  fruit  to  us,  though  still  green  and  crude, 
—  the  hard,  round,  glossy  fruit,  which,  if  not 
ripe,  still  was  not  poison,  but  New  English  too, 
brought  hither  its  ancestors  by  ours  once. 
These  gentler  trees  imparted  a  half-civilized 
and  twilight  aspect  to  the  otherwise  barbarian 
land.  Still  farther  on  we  scrambled  up  the 
rocky  channel  of  a  brook,  which  had  long  served 
nature  for  a  sluice  there,  leaping  like  it  from 
rock  to  rock,  through  tangled  woods,  at  the  bot 
tom  of  a  ravine,  which  grew  darker  and  darker, 
and  more  and  more  hoarse  the  murmurs  of  the 
stream,  until  we  reached  the  ruins  of  a  mill, 
where  now  the  ivy  grew,  and  the  trout  glanced 
through  the  crumbling  flume;  and  there  we 
imagined  what  had  been  the  dreams  and  specu 
lations  of  some  early  settler.  But  the  waning 
day  compelled  us  to  embark  once  more,  and  re 
deem  this  wasted  time  with  long  and  vigorous 
sweeps  over  the  rippling  stream. 


306  A   WEEK 

It  was  still  wild  and  solitary,  except  that  at 
intervals  of  a  mile  or  two  the  roof  of  a  cottage 
might  be  seen  over  the  bank.  This  region,  as 
we  read,  was  once  famous  for  the  manufacture 
of  straw  bonnets  of  the  Leghorn  kind,  of  which 
it  claims  the  invention  in  these  parts ;  and  oc 
casionally  some  industrious  damsel  tripped  down 
to  the  water's  edge,  to  put  her  straw  a-soak,  as 
it  appeared,  and  stood  awhile  to  watch  the  re 
treating  voyageurs,  and  catch  the  fragment  of  a 
boat-song  which  we  had  made,  wafted  over  the 
water. 

Thus,  perchance,  the  Indian  hunter, 

Many  a  lagging  year  agone, 
Gliding  o'er  thy  rippling  waters, 

Lowly  hummed  a  natural  song. 

Now  the  sun 's  behind  the  willows, 
Now  he  gleams  along  the  waves, 

Faintly  o'er  the  wearied  billows 
Come  the  spirits  of  the  braves. 

Just  before  sundown  we  reached  some  more 
falls  in  the  town  of  Bedford,  where  some  stone 
masons  were  employed  repairing  the  locks  in  a 
solitary  part  of  the  river.  They  were  interested 
in  our  adventure,  especially  one  young  man  of 
our  own  age,  who  inquired  at  first  if  we  were 
bound  up  to  "  'Skeag; "  and  when  he  had  heard 
our  story,  and  examined  our  outfit,  asked  us 
other  questions,  but  temperately  still,  and  al 
ways  turning  to  his  work  again,  though  as  if  it 


TUESDAY  307 

were  become  his  duty.  It  was  plain  that  he 
would  like  to  go  with  us,  and,  as  he  looked  up 
the  river,  many  a  distant  cape  and  wooded  shore 
were  reflected  in  his  eye,  as  well  as  in  his 
thoughts.  When  we  were  ready  he  left  his 
work,  and  helped  us  through  the  locks  with  a 
sort  of  quiet  enthusiasm,  telling  us  that  we  were 
at  Coos  Falls,  and  we  could  still  distinguish  the 
strokes  of  his  chisel  for  many  sweeps  after  we 
had  left  him. 

We  wished  to  camp  this  night  on  a  large  rock 
in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  just  above  these 
falls,  but  the  want  of  fuel,  and  the  difficulty  of 
fixing  our  tent  firmly,  prevented  us ;  so  we  made 
our  bed  on  the  main-land  opposite,  on  the  west 
bank,  in  the  town  of  Bedford,  in  a  retired  place, 
as  we  supposed,  there  being  no  house  in  sight. 


WEDNESDAY. 

"  Man  is  man's  foe  and  destiny." 

COTTON. 

EARLY  this  morning,  as  we  were  rolling  up 
our  buffaloes  and  loading  our  boat  amid  the  dew, 
while  our  embers  were  still  smoking,  the  masons 
who  worked  at  the  locks,  and  whom  we  had 
seen  crossing  the  river  in  their  boat  the  even 
ing  before  while  we  were  examining  the  rock, 
came  upon  us  as  they  were  going  to  their  work, 
and  we  found  that  we  had  pitched  our  tent  di 
rectly  in  the  path  to  their  boat.  This  was  the 
only  time  that  we  were  observed  on  our  camp 
ing-ground.  Thus,  far  from  the  beaten  high 
ways  and  the  dust  and  din  of  travel,  we  beheld 
the  country  privately,  yet  freely,  and  at  our 
leisure.  Other  roads  do  some  violence  to  Na 
ture,  and  bring  the  traveler  to  stare  at  her,  but 
the  river  steals  into  the  scenery  it  traverses 
without  intrusion,  silently  creating  and  adorn" 
ing  it,  and  is  as  free  to  come  and  go  as  the 
zephyr. 

As  we  shoved  away  from  this  rocky  coast, 
before  sunrise,  the  smaller  bittern,  the  genius 
of  the  shore,  was  moping  along  its  edge,  or 


810  A   WEEK 

stood  probing  the  mud  for  its  food,  with  ever  an 
eye  on  us,  though  so  demurely  at  work,  or  else 
he  ran  along  over  the  wet  stones  like  a  wrecker 
in  his  storm  coat,  looking  out  for  wrecks  of 
snails  and  cockles.  Now  away  he  goes,  with  a 
limping  flight,  uncertain  where  he  will  alight, 
until  a  rod  of  clear  sand  amid  the  alders  invites 
his  feet;  and  now  our  steady  approach  compels 
him  to  seek  a  new  retreat.  It  is  a  bird  of  the 
oldest  Thalesian  school,  and  no  doubt  believes 
in  the  priority  of  water  to  the  other  elements ; 
the  relic  of  a  twilight  antediluvian  age  which 
yet  inhabits  these  bright  American  rivers  with 
us  Yankees.  There  is  something  venerable  in 
this  melancholy  and  contemplative  race  of  birds, 
which  may  have  trodden  the  earth  while  it  was 
yet  in  a  slimy  and  imperfect  state.  Perchance 
their  tracks,  too,  are  still  visible  on  the  stones. 
It  still  lingers  into  our  glaring  summers, 
bravely  supporting  its  fate  without  sympathy 
from  man,  as  if  it  looked  forward  to  some  sec 
ond  advent  of  which  he  has  no  assurance.  One 
wonders  if,  by  its  patient  study  by  rocks  and 
sandy  capes,  it  has  wrested  the  whole  of  her  se 
cret  from  Nature  yet.  What  a  rich  experience 
it  must  have  gained,  standing  on  one  leg  and 
looking  out  from  its  dull  eye  so  long  on  sunshine 
and  rain,  moon  and  stars !  What  could  it  tell 
of  stagnant  pools  and  reeds  and  dank  night- 


WEDNESDAY  311 

fogs!  It  would  be  worth  the  while  to  look 
closely  into  the  eye  which  has  been  open  and 
seeing  at  such  hours,  and  in  such  solitudes,  its 
dull,  yellowish,  greenish  eye.  Methinks  my  own 
soul  must  be  a  bright  invisible  green.  I  have 
seen  these  birds  stand  by  the  half  dozen  together 
in  the  shallower  water  along  the  shore,  with 
their  bills  thrust  into  the  mud  at  the  bottom, 
probing  for  food,  the  whole  head  being  con 
cealed,  while  the  neck  and  body  formed  an  arch 
above  the  water. 

Cohass  Brook,  the  outlet  of  Massabesic  Pond, 
—  which  last  is  five  or  six  miles  distant,  and 
contains  fifteen  hundred  acres,  being  the  largest 
body  of  fresh  water  in  Rockingham  County,  — 
comes  in  near  here  from  the  east.  Rowing  be 
tween  Manchester  and  Bedford,  we  passed,  at 
an  early  hour,  a  ferry  and  some  falls,  called 
Goff  s  Falls,  the  Indian  Cohasset,  where  there 
is  a  small  village,  and  a  handsome  green  islet 
in  the  middle  of  the  stream.  From  Bedford 
and  Merrimack  have  been  boated  the  bricks  of 
which  Lowell  is  made.  About  twenty  years 
before,  as  they  told  us,  one  Moore,  of  Bedford, 
having  clay  on  his  farm,  contracted  to  furnish 
eight  millions  of  bricks  to  the  founders  of  that 
city  within  two  years.  He  fulfilled  his  contract 
in  one  year,  and  since  then  bricks  have  been  the 
principal  export  from  these  towns.  The  farm- 


312  A   WEEK 

ers  found  thus  a  market  for  their  wood,  and 
when  they  had  brought  a  load  to  the  kilns,  they 
could  cart  a  load  of  bricks  to  the  shore,  and  so 
make  a  profitable  day's  work  of  it.  Thus  all 
parties  were  benefited.  It  was  worth  the  while 
to  see  the  place  where  Lowell  was  "dug  out." 
So,  likewise,  Manchester  is  being  built  of  bricks 
made  still  higher  up  the  river  at  Hooksett. 

There  might  be  seen  here  on  the  bank  of  the 
Merrimack,  near  Goff's  Falls,  in  what  is  now 
the  town  of  Bedford,  famous  "for  hops  and  for 
its  fine  domestic  manufactures,"  some  graves  of 
the  aborigines.  The  land  still  bears  this  scar 
here,  and  time  is  slowly  crumbling  the  bones  of 
a  race.  Yet,  without  fail,  every  spring,  since 
they  first  fished  and  hunted  here,  the  brown 
thrasher  has  heralded  the  morning  from  a  birch 
or  alder  spray,  and  the  undying  race  of  reed- 
birds  still  rustles  through  the  withering  grass. 
But  these  bones  rustle  not.  These  mouldering 
elements  are  slowly  preparing  for  another  met 
amorphosis,  to  serve  new  masters,  and  what 
was  the  Indian's  will  erelong  be  the  white  man's 
sinew. 

We  learned  that  Bedford  was  not  so  famous 
for  hops  as  formerly,  since  the  price  is  fluctuat 
ing,  and  poles  are  now  scarce.  Yet  if  the  trav 
eler  goes  back  a  few  miles  from  the  river,  the 
hop  kilns  will  still  excite  his  curiosity. 


WEDNESDAY  313 

There  were  few  incidents  in  our  voyage  this 
forenoon,  though  the  river  was  now  more  rocky 
and  the  falls  more  frequent  than  before.  It 
was  a  pleasant  change,  after  rowing  incessantly 
for  many  hours,  to  lock  ourselves  through  in 
some  retired  place,  —  for  commonly  there  was 
no  lock-man  at  hand,  —  one  sitting  in  the  boat, 
while  the  other,  sometimes  with  no  little  labor 
and  heave-yo-ing,  opened  and  shut  the  gates, 
waiting  patiently  to  see  the  locks  fill.  We  did 
not  once  use  the  wheels  which  we  had  provided. 
Taking  advantage  of  the  eddy,  we  were  some 
times  floated  up  to  the  locks  almost  in  the  face 
of  the  falls ;  and,  by  the  same  cause,  any  float 
ing  timber  was  carried  round  in  a  circle  and 
repeatedly  drawn  into  the  rapids  before  it  finally 
went  down  the  stream.  These  old  gray  struc 
tures,  with  their  quiet  arms  stretched  over  the 
river  in  the  sun,  appeared  like  natural  objects 
in  the  scenery,  and  the  kingfisher  and  sandpiper 
alighted  on  them  as  readily  as  on  stakes  or 
rocks. 

We  rowed  leisurely  up  the  stream  for  several 
hours,  until  the  sun  had  got  high  in  the  sky, 
our  thoughts  monotonously  beating  time  to  our 
oars.  For  outward  variety  there  was  only  the 
river  and  the  receding  shores,  a  vista  continu 
ally  opening  behind  and  closing  before  us,  as 
we  sat  with  our  backs  upstream;  and,  for  in- 


314  A   WEEK 

ward,  such  thoughts  as  the  muses  grudgingly 
lent  us.  We  were  always  passing  some  low, 
inviting  shore,  or  some  overhanging  bank,  on 
which,  however,  we  never  landed. 

Such  near  aspects  had  we 
Of  our  life's  scenery. 

It  might  be  seen  by  what  tenure  men  held 
the  earth.  The  smallest  stream  is  mediterra 
nean  sea,  a  smaller  ocean  creek  within  the  land, 
where  men  may  steer  by  their  farm  bounds  and 
cottage  lights.  For  my  own  part,  but  for  the 
geographers,  I  should  hardly  have  known  how 
large  a  portion  of  our  globe  is  water,  my  life  has 
chiefly  passed  within  so  deep  a  cove.  Yet  I 
have  sometimes  ventured  as  far  as  to  the  mouth 
of  my  Snug  Harbor.  From  an  old  ruined  fort 
on  Staten  Island,  I  have  loved  to  watch  all  day 
some  vessel  whose  name  I  had  read  in  the  morn 
ing  through  the  telegraph  glass,  when  she  first 
came  upon  the  coast,  and  her  hull  heaved  up 
and  glistened  in  the  sun,  from  the  moment  when 
the  pilot  and  most  adventurous  news-boats  met 
her,  past  the  Hook,  and  up  the  narrow  channel 
of  the  wide  outer  bay,  till  she  was  boarded  by 
the  health  officer,  and  took  her  station  at  Quar 
antine,  or  held  on  her  unquestioned  course  to 
the  wharves  of  New  York.  It  was  interesting, 
too,  to  watch  the  less  adventurous  newsman, 
who  made  his  assault  as  the  vessel  swept  through 


WEDNESDA  Y  315 

the  Narrows,  defying  plague  and  quarantine 
law,  and,  fastening  his  little  cockboat  to  her 
huge  side,  clambered  up  and  disappeared  in  the 
cabin.  And  then  I  could  imagine  what  momen 
tous  news  was  being  imparted  by  the  captain, 
which  no  American  ear  had  ever  heard,  that 
Asia,  Africa,  Europe  —  were  all  sunk ;  for 
which  at  length  he  pays  the  price,  and  is  seen 
descending  the  ship's  side  with  his  bundle  of 
newspapers,  but  not  where  he  first  got  up,  for 
these  arrivers  do  not  stand  still  to  gossip;  and 
he  hastes  away  with  steady  sweeps  to  dispose  of 
his  wares  to  the  highest  bidder,  and  we  shall 
erelong  read  something  startling,  —  "  By  the 

latest    arrival,"  —  "by    the   good    ship ." 

On  Sunday  I  beheld,  from  some  interior  hill, 
the  long  procession  of  vessels  getting  to  sea, 
reaching  from  the  city  wharves  through  the 
Narrows,  and  past  the  Hook,  quite  to  the  ocean 
stream,  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  with  stately 
march  and  silken  sails,  all  counting  on  lucky 
voyages,  but  each  time  some  of  the  number, 
no  doubt,  destined  to  go  to  Davy's  locker,  and 
never  come  on  this  coast  again.  And,  again, 
in  the  evening  of  a  pleasant  day,  it  was  my 
amusement  to  count  the  sails  in  sight.  But  as 
the  setting  sun  continually  brought  more  and 
more  to  light,  still  farther  in  the  horizon,  the 
last  count  always  had  the  advantage,  till,  by  the 


816  A   WEEK 

time  the  last  rays  streamed  over  the  sea,  I  had 
doubled  and  trebled  my  first  number ;  though  I 
could  no  longer  class  them  all  under  the  several 
heads  of  ships,  barks,  brigs,  schooners,  and 
sloops,  but  most  were  faint  generic  vessels  only. 
And  then  the  temperate  twilight  light,  per 
chance,  revealed  the  floating  home  of  some 
sailor  whose  thoughts  were  already  alienated 
from  this  American  coast,  and  directed  towards 
the  Europe  of  our  dreams.  I  have  stood  upon 
the  same  hill-top,  when  a  thunder-shower,  roll 
ing  down  from  the  Catskills  and  Highlands, 
passed  over  the  island,  deluging  the  land ;  and, 
when  it  had  suddenly  left  us  in  sunshine,  have 
seen  it  overtake  successively,  with  its  huge 
shadow  and  dark,  descending  wall  of  rain,  the 
vessels  in  the  bay.  Their  bright  sails  were  sud 
denly  drooping  and  dark,  like  the  sides  of 
barns,  and  they  seemed  to  shrink  before  the 
storm ;  while  still  far  beyond  them  on  the  sea, 
through  this  dark  veil,  gleamed  the  sunny  sails 
of  those  vessels  which  the  storm  had  not  yet 
reached.  And  at  midnight,  when  all  around 
and  overhead  was  darkness,  I  have  seen  a  field 
of  trembling,  silvery  light  far  out  on  the  sea, 
the  reflection  of  the  moonlight  from  the  ocean, 
as  if  beyond  the  precincts  of  our  night,  where 
the  moon  traversed  a  cloudless  heaven,  —  and 
sometimes  a  dark  speck  in  its  midst,  where 


WEDNESDAY  317 

some  fortunate  vessel  was  pursuing  its  happy 
voyage  by  night. 

But  to  us  river  sailors  the  sun  never  rose  out 
of  ocean  waves,  but  from  some  green  coppice, 
and  went  down  behind  some  dark  mountain 
line.  We,  too,  were  but  dwellers  on  the  shore, 
like  the  bittern  of  the  morning;  and  our  pur 
suit,  the  wrecks  of  snails  and  cockles.  Never 
theless,  we  were  contented  to  know  the  better 
one  fair  particular  shore. 

My  life  is  like  a  stroll  upon  the  beach, 

As  near  the  ocean's  edge  as  I  can  go, 
My  tardy  steps  its  waves  sometimes  o'erreach, 

Sometimes  I  stay  to  let  them  overflow. 

My  sole  employment 't  is,  and  scrupulous  care, 
To  place  my  gains  beyond  the  reach  of  tides, 

Each  smoother  pebble,  and  each  shell  more  rare, 
Which  ocean  kindly  to  my  hand  confides. 

I  have  but  few  companions  on  the  shore, 

They  scorn  the  strand  who  sail  upon  the  sea, 

Yet  oft  I  think  the  ocean  they  've  sailed  o'er 
Is  deeper  known  upon  the  strand  to  me. 

The  middle  sea  contains  no  crimson  dulse, 
Its  deeper  waves  cast  up  no  pearls  to  view, 

Along  the  shore  my  hand  is  on  its  pulse, 

And  I  converse  with  many  a  shipwrecked  crew. 

The  small  houses  which  were  scattered  along 
the  river  at  intervals  of  a  mile  or  more  were 
commonly  out  of  sight  to  us,  but  sometimes, 


318  A   WEEK 

when  we  rowed  near  the  shore,  we  heard  the 
peevish  note  of  a  hen,  or  some  slight  domestic 
sound,  which  betrayed  them.  The  lock-men's 
houses  were  particularly  well  placed,  retired, 
and  high,  always  at  falls  or  rapids,  and  com 
manding  the  pleasantest  reaches  of  the  river,  — 
for  it  is  generally  wider  and  more  lake-like  just 
above  a  fall,  —  and  there  they  wait  for  boats. 
These  humble  dwellings,  homely  and  sincere,  in 
which  a  hearth  was  still  the  essential  part,  were 
more  pleasing  to  our  eyes  than  palaces  or  castles 
would  have  been.  In  the  noon  of  these  days, 
as  we  have  said,  we  occasionally  climbed  the 
banks  and  approached  these  houses,  to  get  a 
glass  of  water  and  make  acquaintance  with  their 
inhabitants.  High  in  the  leafy  bank,  sur 
rounded  commonly  by  a  small  patch  of  corn  and 
beans,  squashes  and  melons,  with  sometimes  a 
graceful  hop-yard  on  one  side,  and  some  run 
ning  vine  over  the  windows,  they  appeared  like 
beehives  set  to  gather  honey  for  a  summer.  I 
have  not  read  of  any  Arcadian  life  which  sur 
passes  the  actual  luxury  and  serenity  of  these 
New  England  dwellings.  For  the  outward  gild 
ing,  at  least,  the  age  is  golden  enough.  As 
you  approach  the  sunny  doorway,  awakening 
the  echoes  by  your  steps,  still  no  sound  from 
these  barracks  of  repose,  and  you  fear  that  the 
gentlest  knock  may  seem  rude  to  the  Oriental 


WEDNESDAY  319 

dreamers.  The  door  is  opened,  perchance,  by 
some  Yankee  -  Hindoo  woman,  whose  small- 
voiced  but  sincere  hospitality,  out  of  the  bot 
tomless  depths  of  a  quiet  nature,  has  traveled 
quite  round  to  the  opposite  side,  and  fears  only 
to  obtrude  its  kindness.  You  step  over  the 
white-scoured  floor  to  the  bright  "dresser" 
lightly,  as  if  afraid  to  disturb  the  devotions  of 
the  household,  —  for  Oriental  dynasties  appear 
to  have  passed  away  since  the  dinner-table  was 
last  spread  here,  —  and  thence  to  the  frequented 
curb,  where  you  see  your  long-forgotten,  un 
shaven  face  at  the  bottom,  in  juxtaposition 
with  new-made  butter  and  the  trout  in  the  well. 
"Perhaps  you  would  like  some  molasses  and 
ginger,"  suggests  the  faint  noon  voice.  Some 
times  there  sits  the  brother  who  follows  the  sea, 
their  representative  man ;  who  knows  only  how 
far  it  is  to  the  nearest  port,  no  more  distances, 
all  the  rest  is  sea  and  distant  capes,  — patting 
the  dog,  or  dandling  the  kitten  in  arms  that 
were  stretched  by  the  cable  and  the  oar,  pull 
ing  against  Boreas  or  the  trade -winds.  He 
looks  up  at  the  stranger,  half  pleased,  half  as 
tonished,  with  a  mariner's  eye,  as  if  he  were  a 
dolphin  within  cast.  If  men  will  believe  it, 
sua  si  bona  nbrint,  there  are  no  more  quiet 
Tempes,  nor  more  poetic  and  Arcadian  lives, 
than  may  be  lived  in  these  New  England  dwell* 


320  A   WEEK 

ings.  We  thought  that  the  employment  of 
their  inhabitants  by  day  would  be  to  tend  the 
flowers  and  herds,  and  at  night,  like  the  shep 
herds  of  old,  to  cluster  and  give  names  to  the 
stars  from  the  river  banks. 

We  passed  a  large  and  densely  wooded  island 
this  forenoon,  between  Short's  and  Griffith's 
Falls,  the  fairest  which  we  had  met  with,  with  a 
handsome  grove  of  elms  at  its  head.  If  it  had 
been  evening,  we  should  have  been  glad  to  camp 
there.  Not  long  after,  one  or  two  more  were 
passed.  The  boatmen  told  us  that  the  current 
had  recently  made  important  changes  here.  An 
island  always  pleases  my  imagination,  even  the 
smallest,  as  a  small  continent  and  integral  por 
tion  of  the  globe.  I  have  a  fancy  for  building 
my  hut  on  one.  Even  a  bare,  grassy  isle, 
which  I  can  see  entirely  over  at  a  glance,  has 
some  undefined  and  mysterious  charm  for  me. 
There  is  commonly  such  a  one  at  the  junction 
of  two  rivers,  whose  currents  bring  down  and 
deposit  their  respective  sands  in  the  eddy  at 
their  confluence,  as  it  were  the  womb  of  a  con 
tinent.  By  what  a  delicate  and  far-stretched 
contribution  every  island  is  made!  What  an 
enterprise  of  Nature  thus  to  lay  the  foundations 
of  and  to  build  up  the  future  continent,  of 
golden  and  silver  sands  and  the  ruins  of  forests, 
with  ant-like  industry.  Pindar  gives  the  fol- 


WEDNESDA  Y  321 

lowing  account  of  the  origin  of  Thera,  whence, 
in  after  times,  Libyan  Gyrene  was  settled  by 
Battus.  Triton,  in  the  form  of  Eurypylus, 
presents  a  clod  to  Euphemus,  one  of  the  Argo 
nauts,  as  they  are  about  to  return  home. 

"  He  knew  of  our  haste, 
And  immediately  seizing  a  clod 
With  his  right  hand,  strove  to  give  it 
As  a  chance  stranger's  gift. 

Nor  did  the  hero  disregard  him,  but  leaping  on  the  shore, 
Stretching  hand  to  hand, 
Received  the  mystic  clod. 
But  I  hear  it  sinking  from  the  deck, 
Qo  with  the  sea  brine 
At  evening,  accompanying  the  watery  sea. 
Often  indeed  I  urged  the  careless 
Menials  to  guard  it,  but  their  minds  forgot. 
And  now  in  this  island  the  imperishable  seed  of  spacious 

Libya 
Is  spilled  before  its  hour." 

It  is  a  beautiful  fable,  also  related  by  Pindar, 
how  Helius,  or  the  Sun,  looked  down  into  the 
sea  one  day,  —  when  perchance  his  rays  were 
first  reflected  from  some  increasing,  glittering 
sandbar,  —  and  saw  the  fair  and  fruitful  island 
of  Rhodes 

"  springing  up  from  the  bottom, 
Capable  of  feeding  many  men,  and  suitable  for  flocks ;" 

and  at  the  nod  of  Zeus, — 

"  The  island  sprang  from  the  watery 
Sea ;  and  the  genial  Father  of  penetrating  beams 
Ruler  of  fire-breathing  horses,  has  it." 


322  A   WEEK 

The  shifting  islands !  who  would  not  be  will 
ing  that  his  house  should  be  undermined  by 
such  a  foe!  The  inhabitant  of  an  island  can 
tell  what  currents  formed  the  land  which  he  cul 
tivates;  and  his  earth  is  still  being  created  or 
destroyed.  There  before  his  door,  perchance, 
still  empties  the  stream  which  brought  down 
the  material  of  his  farm  ages  before,  and  is  still 
bringing  it  down  or  washing  it  away,  —  the 
graceful,  gentle  robber! 

Not  long  after  this  we  saw  the  Piscataquoag, 
or  Sparkling  Water,  emptying  in  on  our  left, 
and  heard  the  Falls  of  Amoskeag  above. 
Large  quantities  of  lumber,  as  we  read  in  the 
Gazetteer,  were  still  annually  floated  down  the 
Piscataquoag  to  the  Merrimack,  and  there  are 
many  fine  mill  privileges  on  it.  Just  above 
the  mouth  of  this  river  we  passed  the  artificial 
falls  where  the  canals  of  the  Manchester  Manu 
facturing  Company  discharge  themselves  into 
the  Merrimack.  They  are  striking  enough  to 
have  a  name,  and,  with  the  scenery  of  a  Bash- 
pish,  would  be  visited  from  far  and  near.  The 
water  falls  thirty  or  forty  feet  over  seven  or 
eight  steep  and  narrow  terraces  of  stone,  prob 
ably  to  break  its  force,  and  is  converted  into 
one  mass  of  foam.  This  canal  water  did  not 
seem  to  be  the  worse  for  the  wear,  but  foamed 
and  fumed  as  purely,  and  boomed  as  savagely 


WEDNESDAY  323 

and  impressively,  as  a  mountain  torrent,  and, 
though  it  came  from  under  a  factory,  we  saw  a 
rainbow  here.  These  are  now  the  Amoskeag 
Falls,  removed  a  mile  downstream.  But  we 
did  not  tarry  to  examine  them  minutely,  mak 
ing  haste  to  get  past  the  village  here  collected, 
and  out  of  hearing  of  the  hammer  which  was 
laying  the  foundation  of  another  Lowell  on  the 
banks.  At  the  time  of  our  voyage  Manchester 
was  a  village  of  about  two  thousand  inhabit 
ants,  where  we  landed  for  a  moment  to  get 
some  cool  water,  and  where  an  inhabitant  told 
us  that  he  was  accustomed  to  go  across  the  river 
into  Goffstown  for  his  water.  But  now,  as  I 
have  been  told,  and  indeed  have  witnessed,  it 
contains  fourteen  thousand  inhabitants.  From 
a  hill  on  the  road  between  Goffstown  and  Hook- 
sett,  four  miles  distant,  I  have  seen  a  thunder- 
shower  pass  over,  and  the  sun  break  out  and 
shine  on  a  city  there,  where  I  had  landed  nine 
years  before  in  the  fields;  and  there  was  wav 
ing  the  flag  of  its  Museum,  where  "the  only 
perfect  skeleton  of  a  Greenland  or  river  whale 
in  the  United  States  "  was  to  be  seen,  and  I  also 
read  in  its  directory  of  a  "Manchester  Athe 
naeum  and  Gallery  of  the  Fine  Arts." 

According  to  the  Gazetteer,  the  descent  of 
Amoskeag  Falls,  which  are  the  most  consider 
able  in  the  Merrimack,  is  fifty-four  feet  in  half 


324  A  WEEK 

a  mile.  We  locked  ourselves  through  here  with 
much  ado,  surmounting  the  successive  watery 
steps  of  this  river's  staircase  in  the  midst  of  a 
crowd  of  villagers,  jumping  into  the  canal  to 
their  amusement,  to  save  our  boat  from  upset 
ting,  and  consuming  much  river  water  in  our 
service.  Amoskeag,  or  Namaskeak,  is  said  to 
mean  "great  fishing-place."  It  was  hereabouts 
that  the  Sachem  Wannalancet  resided.  Tradi 
tion  says  that  his  tribe,  when  at  war  with  the 
Mohawks,  concealed  their  provisions  in  the 
cavities  of  the  rocks  in  the  upper  part  of  these 
falls.  The  Indians,  who  hid  their  provisions  in 
these  holes,  and  affirmed  "that  God  had  cut 
them  out  for  that  purpose,"  understood  their 
origin  and  use  better  than  the  Royal  Society, 
who  in  their  Transactions,  in  the  last  century, 
speaking  of  these  very  holes,  declare  that  "they 
seem  plainly  to  be  artificial."  Similar  "pot 
holes  "  may  be  seen  at  the  Stone  Flume  on  this 
river,  on  the  Ottaway,  at  Bellows  Falls  on  the 
Connecticut,  and  in  the  limestone  rock  at  Shel- 
burne  Falls  on  Deerfield  River  in  Massachu 
setts,  and  more  or  less  generally  about  all  falls. 
Perhaps  the  most  remarkable  curiosity  of  this 
kind  in  New  England  is  the  well-known  Basin 
on  the  Pemigewasset,  one  of  the  head-waters  of 
this  river,  twenty  by  thirty  feet  in  extent  and 
proportionably  deep,  with  a  smooth  and  rounded 


WEDNESDAY  325 

brim,  and  filled  with  a  cold,  pellucid,  and 
greenish  water.  At  Amoskeag  the  river  is  di 
vided  into  many  separate  torrents  and  trickling 
rills  by  the  rocks,  and  its  volume  is  so  much  re 
duced  by  the  drain  of  the  canals  that  it  does  not 
fill  its  bed.  There  are  many  pot-holes  here  on 
a  rocky  island  which  the  river  washes  over  in 
high  freshets.  As  at  Shelburne  Falls,  where  I 
first  observed  them,  they  are  from  one  foot  to 
four  or  five  in  diameter,  and  as  many  in  depth, 
perfectly  round  and  regular,  with  smooth  and 
gracefully  curved  brims,  like  goblets.  Their 
origin  is  apparent  to  the  most  careless  observer. 
A  stone  which  the  current  has  washed  down, 
meeting  with  obstacles,  revolves  as  on  a  pivot 
where  it  lies,  gradually  sinking  in  the  course  of 
centuries  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  rock,  and 
in  new  freshets  receiving  the  aid  of  fresh  stones, 
which  are  drawn  into  this  trap  and  doomed  to 
revolve  there  for  an  indefinite  period,  doing 
Sisyphus-like  penance  for  stony  sins,  until  they 
either  wear  out,  or  wear  through  the  bottom  of 
their  prison,  or  else  are  released  by  some  revo 
lution  of  nature.  There  lie  the  stones  of  vari 
ous  sizes,  from  a  pebble  to  a  foot  or  two  in 
diameter,  some  of  which  have  rested  from  their 
labor  only  since  the  spring,  and  some  higher  up 
which  have  lain  still  and  dry  for  ages,  —  we  no 
ticed  some  here  at  least  sixteen  feet  above  the 


326  A  WEEK 

present  level  of  the  water,  —  while  others  are 
still  revolving,  and  enjoy  no  respite  at  any  sea 
son.  In  one  instance,  at  Shelburne  Falls,  they 
have  worn  quite  through  the  rock,  so  that  a 
portion  of  the  river  leaks  through  in  anticipa 
tion  of  the  fall.  Some  of  these  pot-holes  at 
Amoskeag,  in  a  very  hard  brown-stone,  had  an 
oblong,  cylindrical  stone  of  the  same  material 
loosely  fitting  them.  One,  as  much  as  fifteen 
feet  deep  and  seven  or  eight  in  diameter,  which 
was  worn  quite  through  to  the  water,  had  a 
huge  rock  of  the  same  material,  smooth  but  of 
irregular  form,  lodged  in  it.  Everywhere  there 
were  the  rudiments  or  the  wrecks  of  a  dimple  in 
the  rock;  the  rocky  shells  of  whirlpools.  As  if 
by  force  of  example  and  sympathy  after  so  many 
lessons,  the  rocks,  the  hardest  material,  had 
been  endeavoring  to  whirl  or  flow  into  the  forms 
of  the  most  fluid.  The  finest  workers  in  stone 
are  not  copper  or  steel  tools,  but  the  gentle 
touches  of  air  and  water  working  at  their  leisure 
with  a  liberal  allowance  of  time. 

Not  only  have  some  of  these  basins  been 
forming  for  countless  ages,  but  others  exist 
which  must  have  been  completed  in  a  former 
geological  period.  In  deepening  the  Pawtucket 
Canal,  in  1822,  the  workmen  came  to  ledges 
with  pot-holes  in  them,  where  probably  was 
once  the  bed  of  the  river,  and  there  are  some, 


WEDNESDA  Y  327 

we  are  told,  in  the  town  of  Canaan  in  this  State, 
with  the  stones  still  in  them,  on  the  height  of 
land  between  the  Merrimack  and  Connecticut, 
and  nearly  a  thousand  feet  above  these  rivers, 
proving  that  the  mountains  and  the  rivers  have 
changed  places.  There  lie  the  stones  which 
completed  their  revolutions  perhaps  before 
thoughts  began  to  revolve  in  the  brain  of  man. 
The  periods  of  Hindoo  and  Chinese  history, 
though  they  reach  back  to  the  time  when  the 
race  of  mortals  is  confounded  with  the  race  of 
gods,  are  as  nothing  compared  with  the  periods 
which  these  stones  have  inscribed.  That  which 
commenced  a  rock  when  time  was  young  shall 
conclude  a  pebble  in  the  unequal  contest.  With 
such  expense  of  time  and  natural  forces  are  our 
very  paving-stones  produced.  They  teach  us 
lessons,  these  dumb  workers;  verily  there  are 
"sermons  in  stones,  and  books  in  the  running 
brooks."  In  these  very  holes  the  Indians  hid 
their  provisions;  but  now  there  is  no  bread, 
but  only  its  old  neighbor  stones  at  the  bottom. 
Who  knows  how  many  races  they  have  served 
thus  ?  By  as  simple  a  law,  some  accidental  by 
law,  perchance,  our  system  itself  was  made 
ready  for  its  inhabitants. 

These,  and  such  as  these,  must  be  our  an 
tiquities,  for  lack  of  human  vestiges.  The 
monuments  of  heroes  and  the  temples  of  the 


328  A   WEEK 

gods  which  may  once  have  stood  on  the  banks 
of  this  river  are  now,  at  any  rate,  returned  to 
dust  and  primitive  soil.  The  murmur  of  un- 
chronicled  nations  has  died  away  along  these 
shores,  and  once  more  Lowell  and  Manchester 
are  on  the  trail  of  the  Indian. 

The  fact  that  Romans  once  inhabited  her  re 
flects  no  little  dignity  on  Nature  herself;  that 
from  some  particular  hill  the  Roman  once  looked 
out  on  the  sea.  She  need  not  be  ashamed  of  the 
vestiges  of  her  children.  How  gladly  the  an 
tiquary  informs  us  that  their  vessels  penetrated 
into  this  frith,  or  up  that  river  of  some  remote 
isle!  Their  military  monuments  still  remain 
on  the  hills  and  under  the  sod  of  the  valleys. 
The  oft-repeated  Roman  story  is  written  in  still 
legible  characters  in  every  quarter  of  the  Old 
World,  and  but  to-day,  perchance,  a  new  coin 
is  dug  up  whose  inscription  repeats  and  con 
firms  their  fame.  Some  "Judaea  Capta,"  with 
a  woman  mourning  under  a  palm-tree,  with  si 
lent  argument  and  demonstration  confirms  the 
pages  of  history. 

"  Rome  living  was  the  world's  sole  ornament ; 
And  dead  is  now  the  world's  sole  monument. 

With  her  own  weight  down  pressed  now  she  lies, 
And  by  her  heaps  her  hugeness  testifies." 

If  one  doubts  whether  Grecian  valor  and  pa- 


WEDNESDA  Y  329 

triotism  are  not  a  fiction  of  the  poets,  he  may 
go  to  Athens  and  see  still  upon  the  walls  of  the 
temple  of  Minerva  the  circular  marks  made  by 
the  shields  taken  from  the  enemy  in  the  Persian 
war,  which  were  suspended  there.  We  have  not 
far  to  seek  for  living  and  unquestionable  evi 
dence.  The  very  dust  takes  shape  and  confirms 
some  story  which  we  had  read.  As  Fuller  said, 
commenting  on  the  zeal  of  Camden,  "A  broken 
urn  is  a  whole  evidence ;  or  an  old  gate  still  sur 
viving  out  of  which  the  city  is  run  out."  When 
Solon  endeavored  to  prove  that  Salamis  had  for 
merly  belonged  to  the  Athenians,  and  not  to  the 
Megareaiis,  he  caused  the  tombs  to  be  opened, 
and  showed  that  the  inhabitants  of  Salamis 
turned  the  faces  of  their  dead  to  the  same  side 
with  the  Athenians,  but  the  Megareans  to  the 
opposite  side.  There  they  were  to  be  interro 
gated. 

Some  minds  are  as  little  logical  or  argumen 
tative  as  nature;  they  can  offer  no  reason  or 
"guess,"  but  they  exhibit  the  solemn  and  incon 
trovertible  fact.  If  a  historical  question  arises, 
they  cause  the  tombs  to  be  opened.  Their  silent 
and  practical  logic  convinces  the  reason  and  the 
understanding  at  the  same  time.  Of  such  sort 
is  always  the  only  pertinent  question  and  the 
only  satisfactory  reply. 

Our  own  country  furnishes  antiquities  as  an- 


330  A   WEEK 

cient  and  durable,  and  as  useful,  as  any ;  rocks 
at  least  as  well  covered  with  lichens,  and  a  soil 
which,  if  it  is  virgin,  is  but  virgin  mould,  the 
very  dust  of  nature.  What  if  we  cannot  read 
Rome,  or  Greece,  Etruria,  or  Carthage,  or 
Egypt,  or  Babylon,  on  these;  are  our  cliffs 
bare?  The  lichen  on  the  rocks  is  a  rude  and 
simple  shield  which  beginning  and  imperfect 
Nature  suspended  there.  Still  hangs  her  wrin 
kled  trophy.  And  here  too  the  poet's  eye  may 
still  detect  the  brazen  nails  which  fastened 
Time's  inscriptions,  and  if  he  has  the  gift,  de 
cipher  them  by  this  clue.  The  walls  that  fence 
our  fields,  as  well  as  modern  Rome,  and  not  less 
the  Parthenon  itself,  are  all  built  of  ruins. 
Here  may  be  heard  the  din  of  rivers,  and  ancient 
winds  which  have  long  since  lost  their  names 
sough  through  our  woods,  — the  first  faint 
sounds  of  spring,  older  than  the  summer  of 
Athenian  glory,  the  titmouse  lisping  in  the 
wood,  the  jay's  scream,  and  bluebird's  warble, 
and  the  hum  of 

"bees  that  fly 
About  the  laughing  blossoms  of  sallowy." 

Here  is  the  gray  dawn  for  antiquity,  and  our 
to-morrow's  future  should  be  at  least  paulo-post 
to  theirs  which  we  have  put  behind  us.  There 
are  the  red-maple  and  birchen  leaves,  old  runes 
which  are  not  yet  deciphered;  catkins,  pine- 


WEDNESDAY  331 

cones,  vines,  oak  leaves,  and  acorns;  the  very 
things  themselves,  and  not  their  forms  in  stone, 
—  so  much  the  more  ancient  and  venerable. 
And  even  to  the  current  summer  there  has  come 
down  tradition  of  a  hoary -headed  master  of  all 
art,  who  once  filled  every  field  and  grove  with 
statues  and  godlike  architecture,  of  every  de 
sign  which  Greece  has  lately  copied;  whose 
ruins  are  now  mingled  with  the  dust,  and  not 
one  block  remains  upon  another.  The  century 
sun  and  unwearied  rain  have  wasted  them,  till 
not  one  fragment  from  that  quarry  now  exists ; 
and  poets  perchance  will  feign  that  gods  sent 
down  the  material  from  heaven. 

What  though  the  traveler  tell  us  of  the  ruins 
of  Egypt,  are  we  so  sick  or  idle  that  we  must 
sacrifice  our  America  and  to-day  to  some  man's 
ill-remembered  and  indolent  story?  Carnac 
and  Luxor  are  but  names,  or  if  their  skeletons 
remain,  still  more  desert  sand  and  at  length  a 
wave  of  the  Mediterranean  Sea  are  needed  to 
wash  away  the  filth  that  attaches  to  their  gran 
deur.  Carnac!  Carnac!  here  is  Carnac  for 
me.  I  behold  the  columns  of  a  larger  and  purer 
temple. 

This  is  my  Carnac,  whose  unmeasured  dome 
Shelters  the  measuring  art  and  measurer's  home. 
Behold  these  flowers,  let  us  be  up  with  time, 
Not  dreaming  of  three  thousand  years  ago, 
Erect  ourselves  and  let  those  columns  lie, 


332  A   WEEK 

Not  stoop  to  raise  a  foil  against  the  sky. 
Where  is  the  spirit  of  that  time  but  in 
This  present  day,  perchance  the  present  line  ? 
Three  thousand  years  ago  are  not  agone, 
They  are  still  lingering  in  this  summer  morn, 
And  Memnon's  Mother  sprightly  greets  us  now, 
Wearing  her  youthful  radiance  on  her  hrow. 
If  Carnac's  columns  still  stand  on  the  plain, 
To  enjoy  our  opportunities  they  remain. 

In  these  parts  dwelt  the  famous  Sachem  Pas- 
aconaway,  who  was  seen  by  Gookin  "at  Paw- 
tucket,  when  he  was  about  one  hundred  and 
twenty  years  old."  He  was  reputed  a  wise  man 
and  a  powwow,  and  restrained  his  people  from 
going  to  war  with  the  English.  They  believed 
"that  he  could  make  water  burn,  rocks  move, 
and  trees  dance,  and  metamorphose  himself 
into  a  flaming  man;  that  in  winter  he  could 
raise  a  green  leaf  out  of  the  ashes  of  a  dry  one, 
and  produce  a  living  snake  from  the  skin  of  a 
dead  one,  and  many  similar  miracles."  In 
1660,  according  to  Gookin,  at  a  great  feast  and 
dance,  he  made  his  farewell  speech  to  his  peo 
ple,  in  which  he  said  that  as  he  was  not  likely 
to  see  them  met  together  again,  he  would  leave 
them  this  word  of  advice,  to  take  heed  how  they 
quarreled  with  their  English  neighbors,  for 
though  they  might  do  them  much  mischief  at 
first,  it  would  prove  the  means  of  their  own 
destruction.  He  himself,  he  said,  had  been  as 


WEDNESDAY  333 

much  an  enemy  to  the  English  at  their  first 
coming  as  any,  and  had  used  all  his  arts  to  de 
stroy  them,  or  at  least  to  prevent  their  settle 
ment,  but  could  by  no  means  effect  it.  Gookin 
thought  that  he  "possibly  might  have  such  a 
kind  of  spirit  upon  him  as  was  upon  Balaam, 
who,  in  Numbers  xxiii.  23,  said,  'Surely,  there 
is  no  enchantment  against  Jacob,  neither  is 
there  any  divination  against  Israel. ' '  His  son 
Wannalancet  carefully  followed  his  advice,  and 
when  Philip's  war  broke  out,  he  withdrew  his 
followers  to  Penacook,  now  Concord  in  New 
Hampshire,  from  the  scene  of  the  war.  On  his 
return  afterwards,  he  visited  the  minister  of 
Chelmsford,  and,  as  is  stated  in  the  history  of 
that  town,  "wished  to  know  whether  Chelms 
ford  had  suffered  much  during  the  war;  and 
being  informed  that  it  had  not,  and  that  God 
should  be  thanked  for  it,  Wannalancet  replied, 
'Me  next.'" 

Manchester  was  the  residence  of  John  Stark, 
a  hero  of  two  wars,  and  survivor  of  a  third, 
and  at  his  death  the  last  but  one  of  the  Ameri 
can  generals  of  the  Revolution.  He  was  born 
in  the  adjoining  town  of  Londonderry,  then 
Nutfield,  in  1728.  As  early  as  1752,  he  was 
taken  prisoner  by  the  Indians  while  hunting 
in  the  wilderness  near  Baker's  River;  he  per 
formed  notable  service  as  a  captain  of  rangers 


334  A   WEEK 

in  the  French  war;  commanded  a  regiment  of 
the  New  Hampshire  militia  at  the  battle  of 
Bunker  Hill;  and  fought  and  won  the  battle 
of  Bennington  in  1777.  He  was  past  service  in 
the  last  war,  and  died  here  in  1822,  at  the  age 
of  ninety -four.  His  monument  stands  upon  the 
second  bank  of  the  river,  about  a  mile  and  a 
half  above  the  falls,  and  commands  a  prospect^ 
several  miles  up  and  down  the  Merrimack.  It 
suggested  how  much  more  impressive  in  the 
landscape  is  the  tomb  of  a  hero  than  the  dwell 
ings  of  the  inglorious  living.  Who  is  most 
dead,  —  a  hero  by  whose  monument  you  stand, 
or  his  descendants  of  whom  you  have  never 
heard? 

The  graves  of  Pasaconaway  and  Wannalan- 
cet  are  marked  by  no  monument  on  the  bank  of 
their  native  river. 

Every  town  which  we  passed,  if  we  may  be 
lieve  the  Gazetteer,  had  been  the  residence  of 
some  great  man.  But  though  we  knocked  at 
many  doors,  and  even  made  particular  inqui 
ries,  we  could  not  find  that  there  were  any  now 
living.  Under  the  head  of  Litchfield  we 
read :  — 

"The  Hon.  Wyseman  Clagett  closed  his  life 
in  this  town."  According  to  another,  "He  was 
a  classical  scholar,  a  good  lawyer,  a  wit,  and  a 
poet."  We  saw  his  old  gray  house  just  below 


WEDNESDAY  335 

Great  Nesenkeag  Brook.  —  Under  the  head  of 
Merrimack:  "Hon.  Mathew  Thornton,  one  of 
the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  American  In 
dependence,  resided  many  years  in  this  town." 
His  house  too  we  saw  from  the  river.  —  "  Dr. 
Jonathan  Gove,  a  man  distinguished  for  his  ur 
banity,  his  talents  and  professional  skill,  resided 
in  this  town  [Goffstown].  He  was  one  of  the 
oldest  practitioners  of  medicine  in  the  county. 
He  was  many  years  an  active  member  of  the 
legislature." —  "Hon.  Robert  Means,  who  died 
January  24,  1823,  at  the  age  of  80,  was  for  a 
long  period  a  resident  in  Amherst.  He  was  a 
native  of  Ireland.  In  1764  he  came  to  this 
country,  where,  by  his  industry  and  application 
to  business,  he  acquired  a  large  property,  and 
great  respect." —  "William  Stinson  [one  of  the 
first  settlers  of  Dunbarton],  born  in  Ireland, 
came  to  Londonderry  with  his  father.  He  was 
much  respected  and  was  a  useful  man.  James 
Rogers  was  from  Ireland,  and  father  to  Major 
Robert  Rogers.  He  was  shot  in  the  woods, 
being  mistaken  for  a  bear."  —  "Rev.  Matthew 
Clark,  second  minister  of  Londonderry,  was  a 
native  of  Ireland,  who  had  in  early  life  been  an 
officer  in  the  army,  and  distinguished  himself  in 
the  defense  of  the  city  of  Londonderry,  when 
besieged  by  the  army  of  King  James  II.,  A.  D. 
1688-89.  He  afterwards  relinquished  a  mili- 


336  A  WEEK 

tary  life  for  the  clerical  profession.  He  pos 
sessed  a  strong  mind,  marked  by  a  considerable 
degree  of  eccentricity.  He  died  January  25, 
1735,  and  was  borne  to  the  grave,  at  his  particu 
lar  request,  by  his  former  companions  in  arms, 
of  whom  there  were  a  considerable  number 
among  the  early  settlers  of  this  town;  several 
of  them  had  been  made  free  from  taxes  through 
out  the  British  dominions  by  King  William, 
for  their  bravery  in  that  memorable  siege."  — 
Colonel  George  Reid  and  Captain  David 
M'Clary,  also  citizens  of  Londonderry,  were 
"distinguished  and  brave"  officers.  —  "Major 
Andrew  M'Clary,  a  native  of  this  town  [Epsom], 
fell  at  the  battle  of  Breed's  Hill."  Many  of 
these  heroes,  like  the  illustrious  Roman,  were 
ploughing  when  the  news  of  the  massacre  at 
Lexington  arrived,  and  straightway  left  their 
ploughs  in  the  furrow,  and  repaired  to  the  scene 
of  action.  Some  miles  from  where  we  now 
were,  there  once  stood  a  guide-post  on  which 
were  the  words,  "  3  miles  to  Squire  Mac- 
Gaw's." 

But,  generally  speaking,  the  land  is  now,  at 
any  rate,  very  barren  of  men,  and  we  doubt  if 
there  are  as  many  hundreds  as  we  read  of.  It 
may  be  that  we  stood  too  near. 

Uncannunuc  Mountain  in  Goffstown  was  vis 
ible  from  Amoskeag,  five  or  six  miles  westward. 


WEDNESDAY  337 

It  is  the  northeasternmost  in  the  horizon,  which 
we  see  from  our  native  town,  but  seen  from 
there  is  too  ethereally  blue  to  be  the  same  which 
the  like  of  us  have  ever  climbed.  Its  name  is 
said  to  mean  "The  Two  Breasts,"  there  being 
two  eminences  some  distance  apart.  The  high 
est,  which  is  about  fourteen  hundred  feet  above 
the  sea,  probably  affords  a  more  extensive  view 
of  the  Merrimack  valley  and  the  adjacent  coun 
try  than  any  other  hill,  though  it  is  somewhat 
obstructed  by  woods.  Only  a  few  short  reaches 
of  the  river  are  visible,  but  you  can  trace  its 
course  far  downstream  by  the  sandy  tracts  on 
its  banks. 

A  little  south  of  Uncannunuc,  about  sixty 
years  ago,  as  the  story  goes,  an  old  woman  who 
went  out  to  gather  pennyroyal  tripped  her  foot 
in  the  bail  of  a  small  brass  kettle  in  the  dead 
grass  and  bushes.  Some  say  that  flints  and 
charcoal  and  some  traces  of  a  camp  were  also 
found.  This  kettle,  holding  about  four  quarts, 
is  still  preserved  and  used  to  dye  thread  in.  It 
is  supposed  to  have  belonged  to  some  old  French 
or  Indian  hunter,  who  was  killed  in  one  of  his 
hunting  or  scouting  excursions,  and  so  never 
returned  to  look  after  his  kettle. 

But  we  were  most  interested  to  hear  of  the 
pennyroyal;  it  is  soothing  to  be  reminded  that 
wild  nature  produces  anything  ready  for  the  use 


338  A   WEEK 

of  man.  Men  know  that  something  is  good. 
One  says  that  it  is  yellow-dock,  another  that  it 
is  bitter-sweet,  another  that  it  is  slippery -elm 
bark,  burdock,  catnip,  calamint,  elecampane, 
thoroughwort,  or  pennyroyal.  A  man  may  es 
teem  himself  happy  when  that  which  is  his  food 
is  also  his  medicine.  There  is  no  kind  of  herb, 
but  somebody  or  other  says  that  it  is  good.  I 
am  very  glad  to  hear  it.  It  reminds  me  of  the 
first  chapter  of  Genesis.  But  how  should  they 
know  that  it  is  good?  That  is  the  mystery  to 
me.  I  am  always  agreeably  disappointed;  it  is 
incredible  that  they  should  have  found  it  out. 
Since  all  things  are  good,  men  fail  at  last  to 
distinguish  which  is  the  bane  and  which  the 
antidote.  There  are  sure  to  be  two  prescrip 
tions  diametrically  opposite.  Stuff  a  cold  and 
starve  a  cold  are  but  two  ways.  They  are  the 
two  practices  both  always  in  full  blast.  Yet 
you  must  take  advice  of  the  one  school  as  if 
there  was  no  other.  In  respect  to  religion  and 
the  healing  art,  all  nations  are  still  in  a  state  of 
barbarism.  In  the  most  civilized  countries  the 
priest  is  still  but  a  Powwow,  and  the  physi 
cian  a  Great  Medicine.  Consider  the  deference 
which  is  everywhere  paid  to  a  doctor's  opinion. 
Nothing  more  strikingly  betrays  the  credulity 
of  mankind  than  medicine.  Quackery  is  a  thing 
universal,  and  universally  successful.  In  this 


WEDNESDAY  339 

case  it  becomes  literally  true  that  no  imposition 
is  too  great  for  the  credulity  of  men.  Priests 
and  physicians  should  never  look  one  another  in 
the  face.  They  have  no  common  ground,  nor 

is  there  any  to  mediate  between  them.     When 

the  one  comes,  the  other  goes.     They  could  not      I 
come  together  without  laughter,  or  a  significant 
silence,  for  the  one's  profession  is  a  satire  on       I 
the  other's,  and  cither's  success  would  be  the     / 
other's  failure.     It  is  wonderful  that  the  physi-  " 
cian  should  ever  die,  and  that  the  priest  should 
ever  live.     Why  is  it  that  the  priest  is  never 
called   to   consult  with   the   physician?      Is   it 
because  men  believe  practically  that  matter  is 
independent  of  spirit?     But  what  is  quackery? 
It  is  commonly  an  attempt  to  cure  the  diseases 
of  a  man  by  addressing  his  body  alone.     There 
is  need  of  a  physician  who  shall  minister  to  both 
soul  and  body  at  once,  that  is,  to  man.     Now 
he  falls  between  two  stools. 

After  passing  through  the  locks,  we  had  poled 
ourselves  through  the  canal  here,  about  half  a 
mile  in  length,  to  the  boatable  part  of  the  river. 
Above  Amoskeag  the  river  spreads  out  into  a 
lake  reaching  a  mile  or  two  without  a  bend. 
There  were  many  canal-boats  here  bound  up  to 
Hooksett,  about  eight  miles,  and  as  they  were 
going  up  empty,  with  a  fair  wind,  one  boatman 
offered  to  take  us  in  tow  if  we  would  wait.  But 


840  A  WEEK 

when  we  came  alongside,  we  found  that  they 
meant  to  take  us  on  board,  since  otherwise  we 
should  clog  their  motions  too  much;  but  as  our 
boat  was  too  heavy  to  be  lifted  aboard,  we  pur 
sued  our  way  up  the  stream,  as  before,  while 
the  boatmen  were  at  their  dinner,  and  came  to 
anchor  at  length  under  some  alders  on  the  op 
posite  shore,  where  we  could  take  our  lunch. 
Though  far  on  one  side,  every  sound  was  wafted 
over  to  us  from  the  opposite  bank,  and  from  the 
harbor  of  the  canal,  and  we  could  see  every 
thing  that  passed.  By  and  by  came  several 
canal-boats,  at  intervals  of  a  quarter  of  a  mile, 
standing  up  to  Hooksett  with  a  light  breeze, 
and  one  by  one  disappeared  round  a  point 
above.  With  their  broad  sails  set,  they  moved 
slowly  up  the  stream  in  the  sluggish  and  fitful 
breeze,  like  one-winged  antediluvian  birds,  and 
as  if  impelled  by  some  mysterious  counter-cur 
rent.  It  was  a  grand  motion,  so  slow  and 
stately,  this  "standing  out,"  as  the  phrase  is, 
expressing  the  gradual  and  steady  progress  of 
a  vessel,  as  if  it  were  by  mere  rectitude  and  dis 
position,  without  shuffling.  Their  sails,  which 
stood  so  still,  were  like  chips  cast  into  the  cur 
rent  of  the  air  to  show  which  way  it  set.  At 
length  the  boat  which  we  had  spoken  came 
along,  keeping  the  middle  of  the  stream,  and 
when  within  speaking  distance,  the  steersman 


WEDNESDAY  341 

called  out  ironically  to  say  that  if  we  could 
come  alongside  now,  he  would  take  us  in  tow; 
but  not  heeding  his  taunt,  we  still  loitered  in  the 
shade  till  we  had  finished  our  lunch,  and  when 
the  last  boat  had  disappeared  round  the  point 
with  flapping  sail,  for  the  breeze  had  now  sunk 
to  a  zephyr,  with  our  own  sails  set,  and  plying 
our  oars,  we  shot  rapidly  up  the  stream  in  pur 
suit,  and  as  we  glided  close  alongside,  while 
they  were  vainly  invoking  2Eolus  to  their  aid, 
we  returned  their  compliment  by  proposing,  if 
they  would  throw  us  a  rope,  to  "take  them  in 
tow,"  to  which  these  Merrimack  sailors  had  no 
suitable  answer  ready.  Thus  we  gradually  over 
took  and  passed  each  boat  in  succession  until 
we  had  the  river  to  ourselves  again. 

Our  course  this  afternoon  was  between  Man 
chester  and  Goffstown. 


While  we  float  here,  far  from  that  tributary 
stream  on  whose  banks  our  Friends  and  kindred 
dwell,  our  thoughts,  like  the  stars,  come  out  of 
their  horizon  still;  for  there  circulates  a  finer 
blood  than  Lavoisier  has  discovered  the  laws  of, 
—  the  blood,  not  of  kindred  merely,  but  of 
kindness,  whose  pulse  still  beats  at  any  distance 
and  forever. 


342  A   WEEK 

True  kindness  is  a  pure  divine  affinity, 
Not  founded  upon  human  consanguinity. 
It  is  a  spirit,  not  a  blood  relation, 
Superior  to  family  and  station. 

After  years  of  vain  familiarity,  some  distant 
gesture  or  unconscious  behavior,  which  we  re 
member,  speaks  to  us  with  more  emphasis  than 
the  wisest  or  kindest  words.  We  are  sometimes 
made  aware  of  a  kindness  long  passed,  and  real 
ize  that  there  have  been  times  when  our  Friends' 
thoughts  of  us  were  of  so  pure  and  lofty  a  char 
acter  that  they  passed  over  us  like  the  winds  of 
heaven  unnoticed ;  when  they  treated  us  not  as 
what  we  were,  but  as  what  we  aspired  to  be. 
There  has  just  reached  us,  it  may  be,  the  no 
bleness  of  some  such  silent  behavior,  not  to  be 
forgotten,  not  to  be  remembered,  and  we  shud 
der  to  think  how  it  fell  on  us  cold,  though  in 
some  true  but  tardy  hour  we  endeavor  to  wipe 
off  these  scores. 

In  my  experience,  •persons,  when  they  are 
made  the  subject  of  conversation,  though  with 
a  Friend,  are  commonly  the  most  prosaic  and 
trivial  of  facts.  The  universe  seems  bankrupt 
as  soon  as  we  begin  to  discuss  the  character  of 
individuals.  Our  discourse  all  runs  to  slander, 
and  our  limits  grow  narrower  as  we  advance. 
How  is  it  that  we  are  impelled  to  treat  our  old 
Friends  so  ill  when  we  obtain  new  ones?  The 


WEDNESDAY  343 

housekeeper  says,  I  never  had  any  new  crockery 
in  my  life  but  I  began  to  break  the  old.  I  say, 
let  us  speak  of  mushrooms  and  forest  trees 
rather.  Yet  we  can  sometimes  afford  to  re 
member  them  in  private. 

Lately,  alas,  I  knew  a  gentle  boy, 

Whose  features  all  were  cast  in  Virtue's  mould, 
As  one  she  had  designed  for  Beauty's  toy, 

But  after  manned  him  for  her  own  strong-hold. 

On  every  side  he  open  was  as  day, 

That  you  might  see  no  lack  of  strength  within, 

For  walls  and  ports  do  only  serve  alway 
For  a  pretense  to  feebleness  and  sin,. 

Say  not  that  Caesar  was  victorious, 

With  toil  and  strife  who  stormed  the  House  of  Fame, 
In  other  sense  this  youth  was  glorious, 

Himself  a  kingdom  wheresoe'er  he  came. 

No  strength  went  out  to  get  him  victory, 

When  all  was  income  of  its  own  accord ; 
For  where  he  went  none  other  was  to  see, 

But  all  were  parcel  of  their  noble  lord. 

He  forayed  like  the  subtile  haze  of  summer, 
That  stilly  shows  fresh  landscapes  to  our  eyes, 

And  revolutions  works  without  a  murmur, 
Or  rustling  of  a  leaf  beneath  the  skies. 

So  was  I  taken  unawares  by  this, 

I  quite  forgot  my  homage  to  confess  ; 
Yet  now  am  forced  to  know,  though  hard  it  is, 

I  might  havejoved  him  had  I  loved  him  less.  __ 

Each  moment  as  we  nearer  drew  to  each, 
A  stern  respect  withheld  us  farther  yet, 


844  A  WEEK 

So  that  we  seemed  beyond  each  other's  reach, 
And  less  acquainted  than  when  first  we  met 

We  two  were  one  while  we  did  sympathize,     ^S 
So  could  we  not  the  simplest  bargain  drive ;     i 

And  what  avails  it  now  that  we  are  wise, 

If  absence  doth  this  doubleness  contrive  ?^/ 

Eternity  may  not  the  chance  repeat, 
But  I  must  tread  my  single  way  alone, 

In  sad  remembrance  that  we  once  did  meet, 
And  know  that  bliss  irrevocably  gone. 


Th 


e  spheres  henceforth  my  elegy  shall  sing, 
For  elegy  has  other  subject  none  ; 
Each  strain  of  music  in  my  ears  shall  ring 
Knell  of  departure  from  that  other  one. 

Make  haste  andj 

With  fitting  strain  resound  ye  woods  and  fields ; 
Sorrow  is  dearer Jn  such  case  to  me 

Than  all  the  joys  other  occasion  yields. 

Is  't  then  too  late  the  damage  to  repair  ? 

Distance,  forsooth,  from  my  weak  grasp  hath  reft 
The  empty  husk,  and  clutched  the  useless  tare, 

But  in  my  hands  the  wheat  and  kernel  left. 

If  I  but  love  that  virtue  which  he  is, 

Though  it  be  scented  in  the  morning  air, 

Still  shall  we  be  truest  acquaintances, 
Nor  mortals  know  a  sympathy  more  rare. 

Friendship  is  evanescent  in  every  man's  ex 
perience,  and  remembered  like  heat  lightning  in 
past^ummers.  Fair  and  flitting  like  a  summer 
cloud ;j— there  is  always  some  vapor  in  the  air, 


WEDNESDAY  34£ 

no  matter  how  long  the  drought ;  there  are  even 
April  showers.  Surely  from  time  to  time,  for 
its  vestiges  never  depart,  it  floats  through  our 
atmosphere.  It  takes  place,  like  vegetation  in 
so  many  materials,  because  there  is  such  a  law, 
but  always  without  permanent  form,  though  an 
cient  and  familiar  as  the  sun  and  moon,  and  as 
sure  to  come  again.  _The  heart  is  forever  inex 
perienced..  They  silently  gather  as  by  magic, 
these  never  failing,  never  quite  deceiving  vi 
sions,  like  the  bright  and  fleecy  clouds  in  the 
calmest  and  clearest  days.  The  Friend  is  some 
fair  floating  isle  of  palms  eluding  the  mariner 
in  Pacific  seas.  Many  are  the  dangers  to  be 
encountered,  equinoctial  gales  and  coral  reefs, 
ere  he  may  sail  before  the  constant  trades.  But 
who  would  not  sail  through  mutiny  and  storm, 
even  over  Atlantic  waves,  to  reach  the  fabulous 
retreating  shores  of  some  continent  man  ?  /  The 
imagination  still  clings  to  the  faintest  tradition 
of 

THE  ATLANTIDES. 

The  smothered  streams  of  love,  which  flow 

More  bright  than  Phlegethon,  more  low, 

Island  us  ever,  like  the  sea, 

In  an  Atlantic  mystery. 

Our  fabled  shores  none  ever  reach, 

No  mariner  has  found  our  beach, 

Scarcely  our  mirage  now  is  seen, 

And  neighboring  waves  with  floating  green, 

Yet  still  the  oldest  charts  contain 


346  A   WEEK 

Some  dotted  outline  of  our  main ; 

In  ancient  times  midsummer  days 

Unto  the  western  islands'  gaze, 

To  Teneriffe  and  the  Azores, 

Have  shown  our  faint  and  cloud-like  shores. 

But  sink  not  yet,  ye  desolate  isles, 
Anon  your  coast  with  commerce  smiles, 
And  richer  freights  ye  '11  furnish  far 
Than  Africa  or  Malabar. 
Be  fair,  be  fertile  evermore, 
Ye  rumored  but  untrodden  shore, 
Princes  and  monarchs  will  contend 
Who  first  unto  your  land  shall  send, 
And  pawn  the  jewels  of  the  crown 
To  call  your  distant  soil  their  own. 

Columbus  has  sailed  westward  of  these  isles 
by  the  mariner's  compass,  but  neither  he  nor 
his  successors  have  found  them.  We  are  no 
nearer  than  Plato  was.  The  earnest  seeker 
and  hopeful  discoverer  of  this  New  World  al 
ways  haunts  the  outskirts  of  his  time,  and  walks 
through  the  densest  crowd  uninterrupted,  and, 
as  it  were,  in  a  straight  line. 

Sea  and  land  are  but  his  neighbors, 

And  companions  in  his  labors, 

Who  on  the  ocean's  verge  and  firm  land's  end 

Doth  long  and  truly  seek  his  Friend. 

Many  men  dwell  far  inland, 

But  he  alone  sits  on  the  strand. 

Whether  he  ponders  men  or  books 

Always  still  he  seaward  looks, 

Marine  news  he  ever  reads, 

And  the  slightest  glances  heeds, 


WEDNESDAY  347 

Feels  the  sea  breeze  on  his  cheek, 
At  each  word  the  landsmen  speak 
In  every  companion's  eye 
A  sailing  vessel  doth  descry  ; 
In  the  ocean's  sullen  roar 
From  some  distant  port  he  hears 
Of  wrecks  upon  a  distant  shore, 
And  the  ventures  of  past  years. 

Who  does  not  walk  on  the  plain  as  amid  the 
columns  of  Tadmore  of  the  desert?     There  is  t 
on  the  earth  no  institution  which  Friendship  1 
has  established;  it  is  not  taught  by  any  reli-  * 
gion ;  no  scripture  contains  its  maxims.     It  has 
no  temple,  nor  even  a  solitary  column.     There 
goes  a  rumor  that  the  earth  is  inhabited,  but 
the  shipwrecked  mariner  has  not  seen  a  foot 
print  on  the  shore.     The  hunter  has  found  only 
fragments   of   pottery  and   the   monuments   of 
inhabitants. 

However,  our  fates  at  least  are  social.  Our 
courses  do  not  diverge;  but  as  the  web  of  des 
tiny  is  woven  it  is  fulled,  and  we  are  cast  more 
and  more  into  the  centre.  Men  naturally, 
though  feebly,  seek  this  alliance,  and  their  ac 
tions  faintly  foretell  it.  We  are  inclined  to  lay 
the  chief  stress  on  likeness  and  not  on  differ 
ence,  and  in  foreign  bodies  we  admit  that  there 
are  many  degrees  of  warmth  below  blood  heat, 
but  none  of  cold  above  it. 

Mencius  says:  "If  one  loses  a  fowl  or  a  dog, 


348  A  WEEK 

he  knows  well  how  to  seek  them  again;  if  one 
loses  the  sentiments  of  his  heart,  he  does  not 
know  how  to  seek  them  again.  .  .   .  The  duties^ 
of  practical  philosophy  consist  only  in  seeking  1 
after  those  sentiments  of  the  heart  which  we/ 
have  lost;  that  is  all."  ^     J 

One  or  two  persons  come  to  my  house  from 
time  to  time,  there  being  proposed  to  them  the 
faint  possibility  of  intercourse.  They  are  as 
full  as  they  are  silent,  and  wait  for  my  plectrum 
to  stir  the  strings  of  their  lyre.  If  they  could 
ever  come  to  the  length  of  a  sentence,  or  hear 
one,  on  that  ground  they  are  dreaming  of! 
They  speak  faintly,  and  do  not  obtrude  them 
selves.  They  have  heard  some  news,  which 
none,  not  even  they  themselves,  can  impart. 
It  is  a  wealth  they  can  bear  about  them  which 
can  be  expended  in  various  ways.  What  came 
they  out  to  seek? 

/No  word  is  oftener  on  the  lips  of  men  than 
Friendship,  and  indeed  no  thought  is  more  fa-  I 
miliar  to  their  aspirations.     All  men  are  dream-  * 
ing  of  it,  and  its  drama,  which  is  always  a  trag 
edy,  is   enacted  daily. ;   It  is  the  secret  of  the 
universe.     You  may  thread  the  town,  you  may 
wander  the  country,  and  none  shall  ever  speak 
of  it,  yet  thought  is  everywhere  busy  about  it, 
and  the  idea  of  what  is  possible  in  this  respect 


WEDNESDAY  349 

affects  our  behavior  toward  all  new  men  and 
women,  and  a  great  many  old  ones.  Neverthe 
less,  I  can  remember  only  two  or  three  essays 
on  this  subject  in  all  literature.  No  wonder 
that  the  Mythology,  and  Arabian  Nights,  and 
Shakespeare,  and  Scott's  novels  entertain  us, 
—  we  are  poets  and  fablers  and  dramatists  and 
novelists  ourselves.  We  are  continually  acting 
a  part  in  a  more  interesting  drama  than  any 
written.  We  are  dreaming  that  our  Friends  ; 
are  our  Friends ,  and  that  we  are  our  Friends' 
Friends.  Our  actual  Friends  are  but  distant 
relations  of  those  to  whom  we  are  pledged. 
We  never  exchange  more  than  three  words  with 
.  a  Friend  in  our  lives  on  that  level  to  which  our 
thoughts  and  feelings  almost  habitually  rise. 
One  goes  forth  prepared  to  say,  "Sweet 
Friends!"  and  the  salutation  is,  "Damn  your 
eyes!  "  But  never  mind;  faint  heart  never  won 
true  Friend.  O  my  Friend,  may  it  come  to 
pass  once,  that  when  you  are  my  Friend  I  may, 
be  yours  J 

Of  what  use  the  friendliest  dispositions  even, 
if  there  are  no  hours  given  to  Friendship,  if  it 
is  forever  postponed  to  unimportant  duties  and 
relations?  Friendship  is  first,  Friendship  last. 
But  it  is  equally  impossible  to  forget  our 
Friends,  and  to  make  them  answer  to  our  ideal. 
When  they  say  farewell,  then  indeed  we  begin 


350  A   WEEK 

r 
to  keep  them  company.     How   often  we   find 

ourselves  turning  our  backs  on  our  actual 
Friends,  that  we  may  go  and  meet  their  ideal 
cousins.  I  would  that  I  were  worthy  to  be  any 
man's  Friend. 

What  is  commonly  honored  with  the  name 
of  Friendship  is  no  very  profound  or  powerful 
instinct.  Men  do  not,  after  all,  love  their 
Friends  greatly.  I  do  not  often  see  the  farmers 
made  seers  and  wise  to  the  verge  of  insanity  by 
their  Friendship  for  one  another.  They  are 
not  often  transfigured  and  translated  by  love  in 
each  other's  presence.  I  do  not  observe  them 
purified,  refined,  and  elevated  by  the  love  of  a 
man.  If  one  abates  a  little  the  price  of  his 
wood,  or  gives  a  neighbor  his  vote  at  town- 
meeting,  or  a  barrel  of  apples,  or  lends  him  his 
wagon  frequently,  it  is  esteemed  a  rare  instance 
of  Friendship.  Nor  do  the  farmers'  wives  lead 
lives  consecrated  to  Friendship.  I  do  not  see 
the  pair  of  farmer  Friends  of  either  sex  pre 
pared  to  stand  against  the  world.  There  are 
only  two  or  three  couples  in  history.  '  To  say 
that  a  man  is  your  Friend  means  commonly  no 
more  than  this,  that  he  is  not  your  enemv^. 
Most  contemplate  only  what  would  be  the  acci 
dental  and  trifling  advantages  of  Friendship, 
so  that  the  Friend  can  assist  in  time  of  need,  by 
his  substance,  or  his  influence,  or  his  counsel; 


WEDNESDAY  351 

but  he  who  foresees  such  advantages  in  this 
relation  proves  himself  blind  to  its  real  advan 
tage,  or  indeed  wholly  inexperienced  in  the  re 
lation  itself.  Such  services  are  particular  and 
menial,  compared  with  the  perpetual  and  all- 
embracing  service  which  it  is.  Even  the  utmost 
good-will  and  harmony  and  practical  kindness  * 
are  not  sufficient  for  Friendship,  for  Friends  do 
not  live  in  harmony  merely,  as  some  say,  but  in 
melody .j  We  do  not  wish  for  Friends  to  feed 
and  clothe  our  bodies,  —  neighbors  are  kind 
enough  for  that,  —  but  to  do  the  like  office  to 
our  spirits.  For  this  few  are  rich  enough, 
however  well  disposed  they  may  be.  For  the 
most  part  we  stupidly  confound  one  man  with 
another.  The  dull  distinguish  only  races  or 
nations,  or  at  most  classes,  but  the  wise  man, 
individuals.  To  his  Friend  a  man's  peculiar  I 
character  appears  in  every  feature  and  in  every  \ 
action,  and  it  is  thus  drawn  out  and  improved/ 
by  him. 

Think  of  the  importance  of  Friendship  in  the 
education  of  men. 

"  He  that  hath  love  and  judgment  too, 
Sees  more  than  any  other  doe." 

It  will  make  a  man  honest ;  it  will  make  him 
a  hero;  it  will  make  him  a  saint.  It  is  the 
state  of  the  just  dealing  with  the  just,  the  mag 
nanimous  with  the  magnanimous,  the  sincere 
with  the  sincere,  man  with  man. 


352  A  WEEK 

And  it  is  well  said  by  another  poet,— 

"  Why  love  among  the  virtues  is  not  known, 
It  is  that  love  contracts  them  all  in  one." 

All  the  abuses  which  are  the  object  of  reform 
with  the  philanthropist,  the  statesman,  and  the 
housekeeper  are  unconsciously  amended  in  the 
intercourse  of  Friends.  A  Friend  is  one  who 
incessantly  pays  us  the  compliment  of  expecting 
from  us  all  the  virtues,  and  who  can  appreciate 
them  in  us.  It  takes  two  to  speak  the  truth,  w^ 
— 7  one  to  speak,  and  another  to  hear.  How  can 
one  treat  with  magnanimity  mere  wood  and 
stone?  If  we  dealt  only  with  the  false  and  dis 
honest,  we  should  at  last  forget  how  to  speak 
truth.  Only  lovers  know  the  value  and  mag-^X 

Vnanimity  of  truth,  while  traders  prize  a  cheap  I 
honesty,  and  neighbors  and  acquaintance  a 
cheap  civility.  In  our  daily  intercourse  with 
men,  our  nobler  faculties  are  dormant  and  suf 
fered  to  rust.  None  will  pay  us  the  compliment 
to  expect  nobleness  from  us.  Though  we  have 
gold  to  give,  they  demand  only  copper.  We 
ask  our  neighbor  to  suffer  himself  to  be  dealt 
with  truly,  sincerely,  nobly ;  but  he  answers  no 
by  his  deafness.  He  does  not  even  hear  this 
prayer.  He  says  practically,  I  will  be  content 
if  you  treat  me  as  "no  better  than  I  should  be," 
as  deceitful,  mean,  dishonest,  and  selfish.  For 
the  most  part,  we  are  contented  so  to  deal  and 


WEDNESDA  Y  353 

to  be  dealt  with,  and  we  do  not  think  that  for 
^the  mass  of  men  there  is  any  truer  and  nobler 
relation  possible.  A  man  may  have  good  neigh 
bors,  so  called,  and  acquaintances,  and  even 
companions,  wife,  parents,  brothers,  sisters, 
^children,  who  meet  himself  and  one  another  on 
this  ground  only.  The  State  does  not  demand 
justice  of  its  members,  but  thinks  that  it  suc 
ceeds  very  well  with  the  least  degree  of  it, 
hardly  more  than  rogues  practice  ;  and  so  do  the 
neighborhood  and  the  family.  What  is  com 
monly  called  Friendship  even  is  only  a  little 
more  honor  among  rogues. 

But  sometimes  we  are  said  to  love  another, 
that  is,  to  stand  in  a  true  relation  to  him,  so 
that  we  give  the  best  to,  and  receive  the  best 
from,  him.  Between  whom  there  is  hearty 
truth,  there  is  love;  and  in  proportion  to  our 
truthfulness  and  confidence  in  one  another,  our 
lives  are  divine  and  miraculous,  and  answer  to 
our  ideal.  There  are  passages  of  affection  in 
our  intercourse  with  mortal  men  and  women 
such  as  no  prophecy  had  taught  us  to  expect, 
which  transcend  our  earthly  life,  and  anticipate 
Heaven  for  us.  What  is  this  Love  that  may 
come  right  into  the  middle  of  a  prosaic  Goffs- 
town  day,  equal  to  any  of  the  gods?  that  dis 
covers  a  new  world,  fair  and  fresh  and  eternal, 
occupying  the  place  of  the  old  one,  when  to  the 


j 

,  y'fo^'/ 

e] 


354  A   WEEK 

common  eye  a  dust  has  settled  on  the  universe? 
which  world  cannot  else  be  reached,  and  does 
not  exist.  What  other  words,  we  may  almost 
ask,  are  memorable  and  worthy  to  be  repeated 
than  those  which  love  has  inspired?  It  is  won 
derful  that  they  were  ever  uttered.  They  are 
few  and  rare  indeed,  but,  like  a  strain  of  music, 
they  are  incessantly  repeated  and  modulated  by 
the  memory.  All  other  words  crumble  off  with 
the  stucco  which  overlies  the  heart.  We  should 
not  dare  to  repeat  these  now  aloud.  We  are 
not  competent  to  hear  them  at  all  times. 

The  books  for  young  people  say  a  great  deal 
about  the  selection  of  Friends;  it  is  because 
they  really  have  nothing  to  say  about  Friends. 
They  mean  associates  and  confidants  merely. 
"Know  that  the  contrariety  of  foe  and  Friend 
proceeds  from  God."  Friendship  takes  place 
between  those  who  have  an  affinity  for  one  an 
other,  and  is  a  perfectly  natural  and  inevitable 
result.  No  professions  nor  advances  will  avail. 
Even  speech,  at  first,  necessarily  has  nothing  to 
do  with  it ;  but  it  follows  after  silence,  as  the 
buds  in  the  graft  do  not  put  forth  into  leaves 
till  long  after  the  graft  has  taken.  It  is  a 
drama  in  which  the  parties  have  no  part  to  act. 
We  are  all  Mussulmans  and  fatalists  in  this 
respect.  Impatient  and  uncertain  lovers  think 
that  they  must  say  or  do  something  kind  when- 


WEDNESDAY  355 


ever  they  meet;  they  must  never  be  [cold/  But 
they  who  are  Friends  do  not  do  what  they  think 
they  must,  but  what  they  must.  Even  their 
Friendship  is  to  some  extent  but  a  sublime  phe 
nomenon  to  them. 

The  true  and  not  despairing  Friend  will  ad 
dress  his  Friend  in  some  such  terms  as  these. 

"I  never  asked  thy  leave  to  let  me  love  thee, 
—  I  have  a  right.  I  love  thee  not  as  something 
private  and  personal,  which  is  your  own,  but  as 
something  universal  and  worthy  of  love,  which 
I  have  found.  Oh,  how  I  think  of  you !  You 
are  purely  good,  —  you  are  infinitely  good.  I 
can  trust  you  forever.  I  did  not  think  that  hu 
manity  was  so  rich.  Give  me  an  opportunity 
to  live." 

"You  are  the  fact  in  a  fiction,  — you  are  the 
truth  more  strange  and  admirable  than  fiction. 
Consent  only  to  be  what  you  are.  I  alone  will 
never  stand  in  your  way." 

"This  is  what  I  would  like,  — to  be  as  inti 
mate  with  you  as  our  spirits  are  intimate,  — 
respecting  you  as  I  respect  my  ideal.  Never  to 
profane  one  another  by  word  or  action,  even  by 
a  thought.  Between  us,  if  necessary,  let  there 
be  no  acquaintance." 

"  I  have  discovered  you ;  how  can  you  be  con- 
cealed  from  me?" 


856  A   WEEK 

The  Friend  asks  no  return  but  that  his  Friend 
will  religiously  accept  and  wear  and  not  dis 
grace  his  apotheosis  of  him.  They  cherish  each 
other's  hopes.  They  are  kind  to  each  other's 
dreams. 

Though  the  poet  says,  "'T  is  the  preeminence 
of  Friendship  to  impute  excellence,"  yet  we  can 
never  praise  our  Friend,  nor  esteem  him  praise 
worthy,  nor  let  him  think  that  he  can  please  us 
by  any  behavior,  or  ever  treat  us  well  enough. 
That  kindness  which  has  so  good  a  reputation 
elsewhere  can  least  of  all  consist  with  this  rela 
tion,  and  no  such  affront  can  be  offered  to  a  9 
Friend,  as  a  conscious  good-will,  a  friendliness  ( 
which  is  not  a  necessity  of  the  Friend's  nature.  ^) 

The  sexes  are  naturally  most  strongly  at 
tracted  to  one  another  by  constant  constitu 
tional  differences,  and  are  most  commonly  and 
surely  the  complements  of  each  other.  How 
natural  and  easy  it  is  for  man  to  secure  the 
attention  of  woman  to  what  interests  himself. 
Men  and  women  of  equal  culture,  thrown  to 
gether,  are  sure  to  be  of  a  certain  value  to  one 
another,  more  than  men  to  men.  There  exists 
already  a  natural  disinterestedness  and  liberal 
ity  in  such  society,  and  I  think  that  any  man 
will  more  confidently  carry  his  favorite  books  to 
read  to  some  circle  of  intelligent  women,  than 
to  one  of  his  own  sex.  The  visit  of  man  to  man 


WEDNESDAY  357 

is  wont  to  be  an  interruption,  but  the  sexes  nat 
urally  expect  one  another.  Yet  Friendship  is 
no  respecter  of  sex ;  and  perhaps  it  is  more  rare 
between  the  sexes  than  between  two  of  the  same 
sex. 

[Friendship  is,  at  any  rate,  a  relation  of  per-  - 
feet  equality.    It  cannot  well  spare  any  outward 
sign  of  equal  obligation  and  advantage.     The 
nobleman  can  never  have  a  Friend  among  his 
retainers,    nor  the   king   among  his    subjects.; 
Not  that  the   parties   to  it  are  in  all  respects 
equal,  but  they  are  equal  in  all  that  respects  or 
affects  their  Friendship.      The  one's  love  is  ex 
actly  balanced  and  represented  by  the  other's.  , 
Persons  are  only  the  vessels  which  contain  the 
nectar,  and  the  hydrostatic  paradox  is  the  sym 
bol  of  love's  law.     It  finds  its  level  and  rises  to 
its  fountain-head  in  all  breasts,  and  its  slender 
est  column  balances  the  ocean. 

"  And  love  as  well  the  shepherd  can 
As  can  the  mighty  nobleman." 

The  one  sex  is  not,  in  this  respect,  more  tender 
than  the  other.  A  hero's  love  is  as  delicate  as 
a  maiden's. 

Confucius  said,  "Never  contract  Friendship 
with  a  man  who  is  not  better  than  thyself."  It 
is  the  merit  and  preservation  of  Friendship,  that 
it  takes  place  on  a  level  higher  than  the  actual 
characters  of  the  parties  would  seem  to  warrant. 


358  A   WEEK 

The  rays  of  light  come  to  us  in  such  a  curve 
that  every  man  whom  we  meet  appears  to  be 
taller  than  he  actually  is.  Such  foundation  has 
civility.  'My  Friend  is  that  one  whom  I  can 
associate  with  my  choicest  thought.  ^  I  always 
assign  to  him  a  nobler  employment  in  my  ab 
sence  than  I  ever  find  him  engaged  in  ;  and  I 
imagine  that  the  hours  which  he  devotes  to  me 
were  snatched  from  a  higher  society.  The  sorest 
insult  which  I  ever  received  from  a  Friend  was 
when  he  behaved  with  the  license  which  only 
long  and  cheap  acquaintance  allows  to  one's 
faults,  in  my  presence,  without  shame,  and  still 
addressed  me  in  friendly  accents.  Beware,  lest 
thy  Friend  learn  at  last  to  tolerate  one  frailty 
of  thine,  and  so  an  obstacle  be  raised  to  the 
progress  of  thy  love.  There  are  times  when  we 
have  had  enough  even  of  our  Friends,  when  we 
begin  inevitably  to  profane  one  another,  and 
must  withdraw  religiously  into  solitude  and 
silence,  the  better  to  prepare  ourselves  forja, 
loftier  intimacy.J  Silence  is  the  ambrosial 
night  in  the  intercourse  of  Friends,  in  which 
their  sincerity  is  recruited  and  takes  deeper 


Friendship  is  never  established  as  an 
stood  relation.  JDo^j^u^leniand  that  I  be  less 
your  Friend  that  you  may  know-4t?  Yet  what 
right  have  I  to  think  that  another  cherishes  so 


WEDNESDA  Y  359 

rare  a  sentiment  for  me?  It  is  a  miracle  which 
requires  constant  proofs.  It  is  an  exercise  of 
the  purest  imagination  and  the  rarest  faith.  It 
says  by  a  silent  but  eloquent  behavior,  —  "I 
will  be  so  related  to  thee  as  thou  canst  imagine ; 
even  so  thou  mayest  believe.  I  will  spend 
truth, — all  my  wealth  on  thee,"  —  and  the 
Friend  responds  silently  through  his  nature  and 
life,  and  treats  his  Friend  with  the  same  divine 
courtesy.  He  knows  us  literally  through  thick 
and  thin.  He  neverasks  for  a  sign  of  love,  but 
can  distinguish  it  by  tne  features  which  it  nat 
urally^  wears.  We  never  need  to  stand  upon 
ceremony  with  him  with  regard  to  his  visits. 
Wait  not  till  I  invite  thee,  but  observe  that  I 
am  glad  to  see  thee  when  thou  comest.  It 
would  be  paying  too  dear  for  thy  visit  to  ask  for 
it.  Where  my  Friend  lives  there  are  all  riches 
and  every  attraction,  and  no  slight  obstacle  can 
keep  me  from  him.  Let  me  never  have  to  tell 
thee  what  I  have  not  to  tell.  Let  our  inter 
course  be  wholly  above  ourselves,  and  draw  us 
up  to  it. 

The  language  of  Friendship  is  not  words,  but? 
meanings.    It  is  an  intelligence  above  language.^ 
One   imagines  endless   conversations   with  his 
Friend,  in  which  the  tongue  shall  be  loosed,  and 
thoughts  be  spoken  without  hesitancy  or  end; 
but  the  experience  is  commonly  far  otherwise. 


360  A   WEEK 

Acquaintances  may  come  and  go,  and  have  a 
word  ready  for  every  occasion ;  but  what  puny 

word  shall  he  utter  whose  very  breath  is  thought 

f""^  •  rft, 

and  meaning?   {Suppose  you  go  to  bid  farewell*^ 

to  your  Friend  who  is  setting  out  on  a  journey; 
what  other  outward  sign  do  you  know  than  to 
shake  his  hand  ?  Have  you  any  palaver  ready 
for  him  then  ?  any  box  of  salve  to  commit  to  his 
pocket?  any  particular  message  to  send  by  him? 
any  statement  which  you  had  forgotten  to 
make  ?  —  as  if  you  could  forget  anything.  No, 
it  is  much  that  you  take  his  hand  and  say  Fare 
well  ;  that  you  could  easily  omit ;  so  far  custom 
has  prevailed.  It  is  even  painful,  if  he  is  to 
go,  that  he  should  linger  so  long.  If  he  must 
go,  let  him  go  quickly.  Have  you  any  last 
words?  Alas,  it  is  only  the  word  of  words, 
which  you  have  so  long  sought  and  found  not; 
you  have  not  a  first  word  yelTj  There  are  few 
even  whom  I  should  venture  to  call  earnestly 
by  their  most  proper  names.  A  name  pro 
nounced  is  the  recognition  of  the  individual  to 
whom  it  belongs.  He  who  can  pronounce  my 
name  aright,  he  can  call  me,  and  is  entitled  to 
my  love  and  service.  Yet  reserve  is  the  free 
dom  and  abandonment  of  lovers.  It  is  the  re 
serve  of  what  is  hostile  or  indifferent  in  their 
natures,  to  give  place  to  what  is  kindred  and 
harmonious.  / 


WEDNESDAY  361 

The  violence  of  love  is  as  much  to  be  dreaded 
as  that  of  hate.  When  it  is  durable  it  is  serene 
and  equable*  Even  its  famous  pains  begin  only 
with  the  ebb  of  love,  for  few  are  indeed  lovers, 
though  all  would  fain  be.  It  is  one  proof  of  a 
man's  fitness  for  Friendship  that  he  is  able  to 

do  without  that  which  is  cheap  and  passionate^ 

• — «-     *•  *  ••  f\ 

A  true  Friendship  is  as  wise  as  it  is  tender.  * 
The  parties  to  it  yield  implicitly  to  the  guidance  / 
of  their  love,  and  know  no  other  law  nor  kind 
ness.  It  is  not  extravagant  and  insane,  but 
what  it  says  is  something  established  henceforth, 
and  will  bear  to  be  stereotyped.  It  is  a  truer 
truth,  it  is  better  and  fairer  news,  and  no  time 
will  ever  shame  it,  or  prove  it  false.  This  is  a 
plant  which  thrives  best  in  a  temperate  zone, 
where  summer  and  winter  alternate  with  one 
another.  The  Friend  is  a  necessarius,  and 
meets  his  Friend  on  homely  ground;  not  on 
carpets  and  cushions,  but  on  the  ground  and 
on  rocks  they  will  sit,  obeying  the  natural  and 
primitive  laws.  They  will  meet  without  any 
outcry,  and  part  without  loud  sorrow.  Their 
relationimplies  such  qualities  as  the  warrior 
"tor  it  takes  a  valor  to  open  the  hearts  of 
asTweH'as  the  gates  of  castles.  It  is  not 
an  idle  sympathy  and  mutual  consolation  merely, 
but  a  heroic  sympathy  of  aspiration  and  en 
deavor. 


A   WEEK 

"  When  manhood  shall  be  matched  so   / 
That  fear  can  take  no  place,          / 
Then  weary  works  make  warriors    / 

Each  other  to  embrace."  i 

The  Friendship  which  Wawatam  testified  for 
Henry  the  fur-trader,  as  described  in  the  lat 
ter 's  Adventures,  so  almost  bare  and  leafless, 
yet  not  blossomless  nor  fruitless,  is  remem 
bered  with  satisfaction  and  security.  The 
stern,  imperturbable  warrior,  after  fasting,  soli 
tude,  and  mortification  of  body,  comes  to  the 
white  man's  lodge,  and  affirms  that  he  is  the 
white  brother  whom  he  saw  in  his  dream,  and 
adopts  him  henceforth.  He  buries  the  hatchet 
as  it  regards  his  friend,  and  they  hunt  and 
feast  and  make  maple  sugar  together.  "Met 
als  unite  from  fluxility ;  birds  and  beasts  from 
motives  of  convenience;  fools  from  fear  and 
stupidity;  and  just  men  at  sight."  If  Wawa 
tam  would  taste  the  "white  man's  milk"  with 
his  tribe,  or  take  his  bowl  of  human  broth 
made  of  the  trader's  fellow-countrymen,  he  first 
finds  a  place  of  safety  for  his  Friend,  whom  he 
has  rescued  from  a  similar  fate.  At  length, 
after  a  long  winter  of  undisturbed  and  happy 
intercourse  in  the  family  of  the  chieftain  in  the 
wilderness,  hunting  and  fishing,  they  return  in 
the  spring  to  Michilimackinac  to  dispose  of 
their  furs;  and  it  becomes  necessary  for  Wawa- 


WEDNESDAY  363 

tarn  to  take  leave  of  his  Friend  at  the  Isle  aux 
Outardes,  when  the  latter,  to  avoid  his  enemies, 
proceeded  to  the  Sault  de  Sainte  Marie,  suppos 
ing  that  they  were  to  be  separated  for  a  short 
time  only.  "We  now  exchanged  farewells," 
says  Henry,  "with  an  emotion  entirely  recipro 
cal.  I  did  not  quit  the  lodge  without  the  most 
grateful  sense  of  the  many  acts  of  goodness 
which  I  had  experienced  in  it,  nor  without  the 
sincerest  respect  for  the  virtues  which  I  had 
witnessed  among  its  members.  All  the  family 
accompanied  me  to  the  beach;  and  the  canoe 
had  no  sooner  put  off  than  Wawatam  com 
menced  an  address  to  the  Kichi  Manito,  be 
seeching  him  to  take  care  of  me,  his  brother, 
till  we  should  next  meet.  We  had  proceeded 
to  too  great  a  distance  to  allow  of  our  hearing 
his  voice,  before  Wawatam  had  ceased  to  offer 
up  his  prayers."  We  never  hear  of  him  again. 
Friendship  is  not  so  kind  as  is  imagined ;  it 
has  not  much  human  blood  in  it,  but  consists 
with  a  certain  disregard  for  men  and  their  erec 
tions,  theJ21n3stiatt-4iu^  while 
it  purifies  the  air  like  electricity.  There  may 
be  the  sternest  tragedy  in  the  relation  of  two 
more  than  usually  innocent  and  true  to  their 
highest  instincts.  We  may  call  it  an  essen 
tially  heathenish  intercourse,  free  and  irrespon 
sible  in  its  nature,  and  practicing  all  the  virtues 


364  A   WEEK 

gratuitously.  It  is  not  the  highest  sympathy 
merely,  but  a  pure  and  lofty  society,  a  frag 
mentary  and  godlike  intercourse  of  ancient 
date,  still  kept  up  atf  intervals,  wliio.hT  remem 
bering  itself,  does  not  hesitate  to  disregard  the 
^rnihlar  rights  and  dntifta  nf  hiin^prjy.  It  re 
quires  immaculate  and  godlike  qualities  full- 
grown,  and  exists  at  all  only  by  condescension 
and  anticipation  of  the  remotest  future.  We 
love  nothing  which  is  merely  good  and  not  fair, 
if  such  a  thing  is  possible.  Nature  puts  some 
kind  of  blossom  before  every  fruit,  not  simply 
a  calyx  behind  it.  When  the  Friend  comes 
out  of  his  heathenism  and  superstition,  and 
breaks  his  idols,  being  converted  by  the  pre 
cepts  of  a  newer  testament;  when  he  forgets  his 
mythology,  and  treats  his  ,FriV^d  like,  a,  ChH^i 
tian^  or  as  he  can  afford;  then  Friendship 
ceases  to  be  Friendship,  and  becomes  charity; 
that  principle  which  established  the  almshouse 
is  now  beginning  with  its  charity  at  home,  and 
establishing  an  almshouse  and  pauper  relations 
there. 

As  for  the  number  which  this  society  admits, 
it  is  at  any  rate  to  be  begun  with  one,  the  no 
blest  and  greatest  that  we  know,  and  whether 
the  world  will  ever  carry  it  further,  whether,  as 
Chaucer  affirms, 


WEDNESDAY  365 

"  There  be  mo  sterres  in  the  skie  than  a  pair," 

remains  to  be  proved ; 

"  And  certaine  he  is  well  begone 
Among  a  thousand  that  findeth  one." 

We  shall  not  surrender  ourselves  heartily  to  any 
while  we  are  conscious  that  another  is  more  ^ 
deserving  of  our  love.  Yet  Friendship  does  no 
stand  for  numbers ;  the  Friend  does  not  count 
his  Friends  on  his  fingers ;  they  are  not  numera 
ble.  The  more  there  are  included  by  this  bond, 
if  they  are  indeed  included,  the  rarer  and  di 
viner  the  quality  of  the  love  that  binds  them. 
J  am  ready  to  believe  that  as  private  and  inti 
mate  a  relation  may  exist  by  which  three  are 
embraced,  as  between  two.  Indeed,  we  cannot 
have  too  many  friends;  the  virtue  which  we  ap 
preciate  we  to  some  extent  appropriate,  so  that 
thus  we  are  made  at  last  more  fit  for  every  rela 
tion  of  life.  A  base  Friendship  is  of  a  narrow 
ing  and  exclusive  tendency,  but  a  noble  one  is 
not  exclusive ;  its  very  superfluity  and  dispersed 
love  is  the  humanity  which  sweetens  society, 
dnd  sympathizes  with  foreign  nations;  for 
though  its  foundations  are  private,  it^  is,  in 
^effect,  a  public  affair  and  a  public  advantage, 
and  the  Friend,  more  than  the  father  of^Jam- 
ily,  deserves  well  of  the  state. 

The  only  danger  in  Friendship  is  that  it  will 
3nd.     It  is  a  delicate  plant,  though  a  native. 


366  A   WEEK 

The  least  unworthiness,  even  if  it  be  unknown 
to  one's  self,  vitiates  it.  Let  the  Friend  know 
that  those  faults  which  he  observes  in  his  Friend 
his  own  faults  attract.  There  is  no  rule  more 
invariable  than  that  we  are  paid  for  n^r  tmspj- 
cions  by  finding  what  we  suspected.  By  our 
narrowness  and  prejudices  we  say,  I  will  have 
so  much  and  such  of  you,  my  Friend,  no  more. 
Perhaps  there  are  none  charitable,  none  disin 
terested,  none  wise,  noble,  and  heroic  enough, 
for  a  true  and  lasting  Friendship. 

I  sometimes  hear  my  Friends  complain  finely 
that  I  do  not  appreciate  their  fineness.  I  shall 
not  tell  them  whether  I  do  or  not.  As  if  they 
expected  a  vote  of  thanks  for  every  fine  thing 
which  they  uttered  or  did.  Who  knows  but  it 
was  finely  appreciated.  It  may  be  that  your 
silence  was  the  finest  thing  of  the  two.  There 
are  some  things  which  a  man  never  speaks  of, 
which  are  much  finer  kept  silent  about.  To 
the  highest  communications  we  only  lend  a  silent 
ear.  Our  finest  relations  are  not  simply  kept 
silent  about,  but  buried  under  a  positive  depth 
of  silence  never  to  be  revealed.  It  may  be  that 
we  are  not  even  yet  acquainted.  Jn_human  in- 
Jtercourse  the  tragedy logins,  pot  when  there  is_ 
misunderstanding  about  words^lxut-whejx  silence 
isjnot  understood.  Then  there  can  never  be  an 
explanation  What  avails  it  that  another  lovoa 


WEDNESDA  Y  367 

j£  ^  ^ 
you,  if  he  does  not  understand_you  ?     Such  love 

is  a  curse.  What  sort  of  companions  are  they 
who  are  presuming  always  that  their  silence  is 
more  expressive  than  yours?^  How  foolish,  and 
inconsiderate,  and  unjust,  to  conduct  as  if  you 
were  the  only  party  aggrieved^  Has  not  your  i 


always  equal  ground  of  complaint  ?  No 
~  doubt  my  Friends  sometimes  speak  to  me  in 
vain,  but  they  do  not  know  what  things  I  hear 
which  they  are  not  aware  that  they  have  spoken. 
I  know  that  I  have  frequently  disappointed 
them  by  not  giving  them  words  when  they  ex 
pected  them,  or  such  as  they  expected.  When 
ever  I  see  my  Friend  I  speak  to  him;  but  the 
expecter,  the  man  with  the  ears,  is  not  he. 
They  will  complain  too  that  you  are  hard.  O 
ye  that  would  have  the  cocoanut  wrong  side 
outwards,  when  next  I  weep  I  will  let  you 
know.  They  ask  for  words  and  deeds,  when  a  * 
true  relation  (is  word_and_deed.  If  they  know  ' 
not  of  these  things,  how  can  they  be  informed  ? 
J£e._Q.ften  forbear  to  confess  our  feelings,  not 
-from  pride,  but  for  fear  that  we  could  not  con 
tinue  to  love  the  one  who  required  us  to  give 
such  proof  of  our  affection. 

I  know  a  woman  who  possesses  a  restless  and 
intelligent  mind,  interested  in  her  own  culture, 
and  earnest  to  enjoy  the  highest  possible  advan- 


368  A   WEEK 

tages,  and  I  meet  her  with  pleasure  as  a  natural 
person  who  not  a  little  provokes  me,  and  I  sup 
pose  is  stimulated  in  turn  by  myself.  Yet  our 
acquaintance  plainly  does  not  attain  to  that  de 
gree  of  confidence  and  sentiment  which  women, 
which  all,  in  fact,  covet.  I  am  glad  to  help 
her,  as  I  am  helped  by  her ;  I  like  very  well  to 
know  her  with  a  sort  of  stranger's  privilege, 
and  hesitate  to  visit  her  often,  like  her  other 
Friends.  My  nature  pauses  here,  I  do  not  well 
know  why.  Perhaps  she  does  not_make_-the. 
highest  demand  on  me^j,__religigus_  demand. 
Some,  with  whose  prejudices  or  peculiar  bias  I 
have  no  sympathy,  yet  inspire  me  with  confi 
dence,  and  I  trust  that  they  confide  in  me  also 
as  a  religious  heathen  at  least,  —  a  good  Greek. 
I,  too,  have  principles  as  well  founded  as  their 
own.  If  this  person  could  conceive  that,  with 
out  willfulness,  I  associate  with  her  as  far  as  our 
destinies  are  coincident,  as  far  as  our  Good 
Geniuses  permit,  and  still  value  such  inter 
course,  it  would  be  a  grateful  assurance  to  me. 
I  feel  as  if  I  appeared  careless,  indifferent,  and 
without  principle  to  her,  not  expecting  more, 
and  yet  not  content  with  less.  If  she  could 
know  that  I  make  an  infinite  demand  on  myself, 
as  well  as  on  all  others,  she  would  see  that  this 

is  infinitely 
but 


WEDNESDA  Y  369 

grounded  one,  without  the  principle  of  growth^ 
in  ifr.  For  a  companion,  I  require  one  who  will 
make  an  equal  demand  on  me  with  my  own  gen 
ius.  Such  a  one  will  always  be  rightly  tolerant. 
It  is  suicide,  and  corrupts  good  manners,  to 
welcome  any  less  than  this.  I  value  and  trust 
those_who  love  and_praise  my  aspiration  rather 
Jha.n  my  performance.  If  you  would  not  stop  to 
look  at  me,  but  look  whither  T  am  looking,  and 
farther,  then  my  education  could  not  dispense 
with  your  company. 

My  love  must  be  as  free 

As  is  the  eagle's  wing", 
Hovering-  o'er  land  and  sea 

And  everything. 

I  must  not  dim  my  eye 

In  thy  saloon, 
I  must  not  leave  my  sky 

And  nightly  moon. 

Be  not  the  fowler's  net 

Which  stays  my  flight, 
And  craftily  is  set 

T'  allure  the  sight. 

But  be  the  favoring  gale 

That  bears  me  on, 
And  still  doth  fill  my  sail 
r  When  thou  art  gone_T 

I  cannot  leave  my  sky 

For  thy  caprice, 
True  love  would  soar  as  high 

As  heaven  is. 


370  A   WEEK 

The  eagle  would  not  brook 

Her  mate  thus  won, 
Who  trained  his  eye  to  look 

Beneath  the  sun. 

Few  tilings  are  more  difficult  than  to  help  a 
Friend  in  matters  which  do  not  require  the  aid 
of  Friendship,  but  only  a  cheap  and  trivial  ser 
vice,  if  your  Friendship  wants  the  basis  of  a 
thorough  practical  acquaintance.  I  stand  in 
the  friendliest  relation,  on  social  and  spiritual 
grounds,  to  one  who  does  not  perceive  what 
practical  skill  I  have,  but  when  he  seeks  my 
assistance  in  such  matters,  is  wholly  ignorant  of 
that  one  with  whom  he  deals ;  does  not  use  my 
skill,  which  in  such  matters  is  much  greater 
than  his,  but  only  my  hands.  I  know  another, 
who,  on  the  contrary,  is  remarkable  for  his  dis 
crimination  in  this  respect;  who  knows  how  to 
make  use  of  the  talents  of  others  when  he  does 
not  possess  the  same;  knows  when  not  to  look 
after  or  oversee,  and  stops  short  at  his  man.  It 
is  a  rare  pleasure  to  serve  him,  which  all  labor 
ers  know.  I  am  not  a  little  pained  by  the  other 
kind  of  treatment.  It  is  as  if,  after  the  friend 
liest  and  most  ennobling  intercourse,  your 
Friend  should  use  you  as  a  hammer,  and  drive 
a  nail  with  your  head,  all  in  good  faith ;  not 
withstanding  that  you  are  a  tolerable  carpenter, 
as  well  as  his  good  Friend,  and  would  use  a 


WEDNESDAY  371 

hammer  cheerfully  in  his  service.  This  want  of 
perception  is  a  defect  which  all  the  virtues  of 
the  heart  cannot  supply :  — 

The  Good  how  can  we  trust  ? 

Only  the  Wise  are  just. 

The  Good  we  use, 

The  Wise  we  cannot  choose. 

These  there  are  none  above  ; 

The  Good  they  know  and  love, 

But  are  not  known  again 

By  those  of  lesser  ken. 

They  do  not  charm  us  with  their  eyes, 

But  they  transfix  with  their  advice ; 

No  partial  sympathy  they  feel, 

With  private  woe  or  private  weal, 

But  with  the  universe  joy  and  sigh, 

Whose  knowledge  is  their  sympathy. 

Confucius  said :  "  To  contract  ties  of  Friend 
ship  with  any  one  is  to  contract  Friendship 
with  his  virtue.  There  ought  not  to  be  any 
other  motive  in  Friendship."  ^^men_wish  us 
to  contract  Friendship  with_t^irvicealso.  I 
nave  a,  Friend  who  wishes  mejbo  see  that  to  be 
right  whicff  I  know_to  be  wrong.  But  if 
Friendship  is  to  rob  me  of  my  eyes,  if  it  is  to 
darken  the  day,  I  will  have  none  of  it.  It 
should  be  expansive  and  inconceivably  liberaliz 
ing  in  its  effects.  True  Friendship  can  afford 
true  knowledge.  It  does  not  depend  on  dark 
ness  and  ignorance.  A  want  of  discernment 
cannot  be  an  ingredient  in  it.  If  I  can  see  my 


872  A   WEEK 

Friend's  virtues  more  distinctly  than  another's, 
his  faults  too  are  made  more  conspicuous  by 
contrast.  We  have  not  so^good  a  right  to  hate 
anyas  our^lMencL  Faults  are  not  the  less 
faults  because  they  are  invariably  balanced  by 
corresponding  virtues,  and  for  a  fault  there  is 
no  excuse,  though  it  may  appear  greater  than  it 
is  in  many  ways.  I  have  never  known  one  who 
could  bear  criticism,  who  could  not  be  flattered, 
who  would  not  bribe  his  judge,  .or  was  content 
that  the  truth  should  be  loved  always  better 
than  himself,, 

If  two  travelers  would  go  their  way  harmoni 
ously  together,  the  one  must  take  as  true  and 
just  a  view  of  things  as  the  other,  else  their 
path  will  not  be  strewn  with  roses.  Yet  you 
can  travel  profitably  and  pleasantly  even  with 
a  blind  man,  if  he  practices  common  courtesy, 
and  when  you  converse  about  the  scenery  will 
remember  that  he  is  blind  but  that  you  can  see ; 
and  you  will  not  forget  that  his  sense  of  hearing 
is  probably  quickened  by  his  want  of  sight. 
Otherwise  you  will  not  long  keep  company.  A 
blind  man,  and  a  man  in  whose  eyes  there  was 
no  defect,  were  walking  together,  when  they 
came  to  the  edge  of  a  precipice.  "Take  care, 
my  friend,"  said  the  latter,  "here  is  a  steep 
precipice;  go  no  farther  this  way."  "I  know 
better,"  said  the  other,  and  stepped  off. 


WEDNESDAY  373 

It  is  impossible  to  say  all  that  we  think, 
even  to  our  truest  Friend.  We  may  bid  him 
farewell  forever  sooner  than  complain,  for  our 
complaint  is  too  well  grounded  to  be  uttered. 
There  is  not  so  good  an  understanding  between 
any  two,  but  the  exposure  by  the  one  of  a  seri 
ous  fault  in  the  other  will  produce  a  misunder 
standing  in  proportion  to  its  heinousness.  ^The 
constitutional  differences  wJiielL.  always  exist, 
^andjareTobstacles  tpja_perfect  Friendship,  are 
-  forever  a  forbidden  theme  to  the  lips  of  Friends. 
They  advise  by  their  whole  behavior.  Nothing 
can_reconcile_them  but  love.  They  are  fatally 
late  when  they  undertake  to  explain  and  treat 
with  one  another  like  foes.  Who  will  take  an 
f  apology_for_  j^JFriend  ?  They  must  apologize 
like  dew  and  frost,  which  are  off  again  with  the 
sun,  and  which  all  men  know  in  their  hearts  to 
be  beneficent.  The  necessity  itself  for  explana 
tion,  —  what  explanation  will  atone  for  that? 

True  love  does  not  quarrel  for  slight  reasons, 
such  mistakes  as  mutual  acquaintances  can  ex 
plain  away,  but,  alas,  however  slight  the  appar 
ent  cause,  only  for  adequate  and  fatal  and  ever 
lasting  reasons,  which  can  never  be  set  aside. 
Its  quarrel,  if  there  is  any,  is  ever  recurring, 
notwithstanding  the  beams  of  affection  which 
invariably  come  to  gild  its  tears;  as  the  rain 
bow,  however  beautiful  and  unerring  a  sign, 


374  A   WEEK 

does  not  promise  fair  weather  forever,  but  only 
for  a  season.  I  have  known  two  or  three  per 
sons  pretty  well,  and  yet  I  have  never  known 
advice  to  be  of  use  but  in  trivial  and  transient 
matters.  One  may  know  what  another  does 
not,  but  the  utmost  kindness  cannot  impart 
what  is  requisite  to  make  the  advice  useful. 
We  must  accept  or  refuse  one  another  as  we 
are.  I  could  tame  a  hyena  more  easily  than  my 
Friend.  He  is  a  material  which  no  tool  of  mine 
will  work.  A  naked  savage  will  fell  an  oak 
with  a  firebrand,  and  wear  a  hatchet  out  of  a 
rock  by  friction,  but  I  cannot  hew  the  smallest 
chip  out  of  the  character  of  my  Friend,  either 
to  beautify  or  deform  it. 

The  lover  learns  at  last  that  there  is  no  per 
son  quite  transparent  and  trustworthy,  but 
every  one  has  a  devil  in  him  that  is  capable  of 
any  crime  in  the  long  run.  Yet,  as  an  Oriental 
philosopher  has  said,  "Although  Friendship  be 
tween  good  men  is  interrupted,  their  principles 
remain  unaltered.  The  stalk  of  the  lotus  may 
be  broken,  and  the  fibres  remain  connected." 

Ignorance  and  bungling  with  love  are  better 
than  wisdom  and  skill  without.  There  may  be 
courtesy,  there  may  be  even  temper,  and  wit, 
and  talent,  and  sparkling  conversation,  there 
may  be  good-will  even,  —  and  yet  the  humanest 


WEDNESDAY  875 

and  divinest  faculties  pine  for  exercise.  Our 
life  without  love  is  like  coke  and  ashes.  Men 
may  be  pure  as  alabaster  and  Parian  marble, 
elegant  as  a  Tuscan  villa,  sublime  as  Niagara, 
and  yet  if  there  is  no  milk  mingled  with  the 
wine  at  their  entertainments,  better  is  the  hos 
pitality  of  Goths  and  Vandals. 

My  Friend  is  not  of  some  other  race  or  fam 
ily  of  men,  but  flesh  of  my  flesh,  bone  of  my 
bone.  He  is  my  real  brother.  I  see  his  nature 
groping  yonder  so  like  mine.  We  do  not  live 
far  apart.  Have  not  the  fates  associated  us  in 
many  ways?  It  says,  in  the  Vishnu  Purana: 
"Seven  paces  together  is  sufficient  for  the 
friendship  of  the  virtuous,  but  thou  and  I  have 
dwelt  together."  Is  it  of  no  significance  that 
we  have  so  long  partaken  of  the  same  loaf, 
drank  at  the  same  fountain,  breathed  the  same 
air  summer  and  winter,  felt  the  same  heat  and 
cold;  that  the  same  fruits  have  been  pleased 
to  refresh  us  both,  and  we  have  never  had  a 
thought  of  different  fibre  the  one  from  the 
other ! 

Nature  doth  have  her  dawn  each  day, 

But  mine  are  far  between  ; 
Content,  I  cry,  for  sooth  to  say, 

Mine  brightest  are  I  ween. 

For  when  my  sun  doth  deign  to  rise, 

Though  it  be  her  noontide, 
Her  fairest  field  in  shadow  lies 

Nor  can  my  light  abide. 


876  A   WEEK 

Sometimes  I  bask  me  in  her  day, 

Conversing  with  my  mate, 
But  if  we  interchange  one  ray, 

Forthwith  her  heats  abate. 

Through  his  discourse  I  climb  and  see 

As  from  some  eastern  hill, 
A  brighter  morrow  rise  to  me 

Than  lieth  in  her  skill. 

As  't  were  two  summer  days  in  one, 

Two  Sundays  come  together, 
Our  rays  united  make  one  sun, 

With  fairest  summer  weather. 

As  surely  as  the  sunset  in  my  latest  Novem 
ber  shall  translate  me  to  the  ethereal  world, 
and  remind  me  of  the  ruddy  morning  of  youth ; 
as  surely  as  the  last  strain  of  music  which  falls 
on  my  decaying  ear  shall  make  age  tq  be  for 
gotten,  or,  in  short,  the  manifold  influences  of 
nature  survive  during  the  term  of  our  natural 
life,  so  surely  my  Friend  shall  forever  be  my 
Friend,  and  reflect  a  ray  of  God  to  me,  and 
time  shall  foster  and  adorn  and  consecrate  our 
Friendship,  no  less  than  the  ruins  of  temples. 
As  I  love  nature,  as  I  love  singing  birds,  and 
gleaming  stubble,  and  flowing  rivers,  and  morn 
ing  and  evening,  and  summer  and  winter,  I 
love  thee,  my  Friend. 

But  all  that  can  be  said  of  Friendship  is  like 
botany  to  flowers.  How  can  the  understanding 
take  account  of  its  friendliness  ? 


WEDNESDAY  377 

Even  the  death  of  Friends  will  inspire  us  as 
much  as  their  lives.  They  will  leave  consola 
tion  to  the  mourners,  as  the  rich  leave  money  to 
defray  the  expenses  of  their  funerals,  and  their 
memories  will  be  incrusted  over  with  sublime 
and  pleasing  thoughts,  as  monuments  of  other 
men  are  overgrown  with  moss ;  for  our  Friends 
have  no  place  in  the  graveyard.^ — 


This  to  our  cis  -  Alpine  and  cis  -  Atlantic 
Friends. 

Also  this  other  word  of  entreaty  and  advice 
to  the  large  and  respectable  nation  of  Acquaint 
ances,  beyond  the  mountains ;  —  Greeting. 

My  most  serene  and  irresponsible  neighbors, 
let  us  see  that  we  have  the  whole  advantage  of 
each  other;  we  will  be  useful,  at  least,  if  not 
admirable,  to  one  another.  I  know  that  the 
mountains  which  separate  us  are  high,  and  cov 
ered  with  perpetual  snow,  but  despair  not.  Im 
prove  the  serene  winter  weather  to  scale  them. 
If  need  be,  soften  the  rocks  with  vinegar.  For 
here  lie  the  verdant  plains  of  Italy  ready  to  re 
ceive  you.  Nor  shall  I  be  slow  on  my  side  to 
penetrate  to  your  Provence.  Strike  then  boldly 
at  head  or  heart  or  any  vital  part.  Depend 
upon  it,  the  timber  is  well  seasoned  and  tough, 
and  will  bear  rough  usage;  and  if  it  should 
crack,  there  is  plenty  more  where  it  came  from. 


378  A   WEEK 

I  am  no  piece  of  crockery  that  cannot  be  jostled 
against  my  neighbor  without  danger  of  being 
broken  by  the  collision,  and  must  needs  ring 
false  and  jarringly  to  the  end  of  my  days, 
when  once  I  am  cracked ;  but  rather  one  of  the 
old-fashioned  wooden  trenchers,  which  one  while 
stands  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  at  another 
is  a  milking-stool,  and  at  another  a  seat  for 
children,  and  finally  goes  down  to  its  grave  not 
unadorned  with  honorable  scars,  and  does  not 
die  till  it  is  worn  out.  Nothing  can  shock  a 
brave  man  but  dullness.  Think  how  many  re 
buffs  every  man  has  experienced  in  his  day; 
perhaps  has  fallen  into  a  horse -pond,  eaten 
fresh-water  clams,  or  worn  one  shirt  for  a  week 
without  washing.  Indeed,  you  cannot  receive 
a  shock  unless  you  have  an  electric  affinity  for 
that  which  shocks  you.  Use  me,  then,  for  I 
am  useful  in  my  way,  and  stand  as  one  of  many 
petitioners,  from  toadstool  and  henbane  up  to 
dahlia  and  violet,  supplicating  to  be  put  to  my 
use,  if  by  any  means  ye  may  find  me  service 
able;  whether  for  a  medicated  drink  or  bath, 
as  balm  and  lavender ;  or  for  fragrance,  as  ver 
bena  and  geranium ;  or  for  sight,  as  cactus ;  or 
for  thoughts,  as  pansy.  These  humbler,  at 
least,  if  not  those  higher  uses. 

Ah,  my  dear  Strangers  and  Enemies,  I  would 
not  forget  you.     I  can  well  afford  to  welcome 


WEDNESDAY  379 


you.  Let  me  subscribe  myself  Yours  ever  _ 
truly,  —  your  much  obliged  servant.  We  have 
nothing  to  fear  from  our  foes;  God  keeps  a 
standing  army  for  that  service  ;  but  we  have  no 
ally  against  our  Friends,  those  ruthless  Vandals.  ' 

Once  more  to  one  and  all,  — 

"Friends,  Romans,  Countrymen,  and  Lovers." 

Let  such  pure  hate  still  underprop 
Our  love,  that  we  may  be 
Each  other's  conscience, 
And  have  our  sympathy 
Mainly  from  thence. 

We  '11  one  another  treat  like  gods, 
And  all  the  faith  we  have 
In  virtue  and  in  truth,  bestow 
On  either,  and  suspicion  leave 
To  gods  below. 

Two  solitary  stars,  — 
Unmeasured  systems  far 
Between  us  roll, 

But  by  our  conscious  light  we  are 
Determined  to  one  pole. 

What  need  confound  the  sphere,  — 

Love  can  afford  to  wait, 

For  it  no  hour  's  too  late 

That  witnesseth  one  duty's  end, 

Or  to  another  doth  beginning  lend 

It  will  subserve  no  use, 

More  than  the  tints  of  flowers, 


580  A  WEEK 

Only  the  independent  guest 
Frequents  its  bowers, 
Inherits  its  bequest. 

No  speech  though  kind  has  it, 
But  kinder  silence  doles 
Unto  its  mates, 
By  night  consoles, 
By  day  congratulates. 

What  saith  the  tongue  to  tongue  ? 
What  heareth  ear  of  ear  ? 
By  the  decrees  of  fate 
From  year  to  year, 
Does  it  communicate. 

Pathless  the  gulf  of  feeling  yawns,  — 
No  trivial  bridge  of  words, 
Or  arch  of  boldest  span, 
Can  leap  the  moat  that  girds 
The  sincere  man. 

No  show  of  bolts  and  bars 
Can  keep  the  f  oeman  out, 
Or  'scape  his  secret  mine 
Who  entered  with  the  doubt 
That  drew  the  line. 

No  warder  at  the  gate 
Can  let  the  friendly  in, 
But,  like  the  sun,  o'er  all 
He  will  the  castle  win, 
And  shine  along  the  wall. 

There  's  nothing  in  the  world  I  know 
That  can  escape  from  love, 
For  every  depth  it  goes  below, 
And  every  height  above. 


WEDNESDA  Y  381 

It  waits  as  waits  the  sky, 
Until  the  clouds  go  by, 
Yet  shines  serenely  on 
With  an  eternal  day, 
Alike  when  they  are  gone, 
And  when  they  stay. 

Implacable  is  Love,  — 
Foes  may  be  bought  or  teased 
From  their  hostile  intent, 
But  he  goes  unappeased 
Who  is  on  kindness  bent. 

Having  rowed  five  or  six  miles  above  Amos- 
keag  before  sunset,  and  reached  a  pleasant  part 
of  the  river,  one  of  us  landed  to  look  for  a  farm 
house,  where  we  might  replenish  our  stores, 
while  the  other  remained  cruising  about  the 
stream,  and  exploring  the  opposite  shores  to 
find  a  suitable  harbor  for  the  night.  In  the 
mean  while  the  canal-boats  began  to  come  round 
a  point  in  our  rear,  poling  their  way  along  close 
to  the  shore,  the  breeze  having  quite  died  away. 
This  time  there  was  no  offer  of  assistance,  but 
one  of  the  boatmen  only  called  out  to  say,  as 
the  truest  revenge  for  having  been  the  losers  in 
the  race,  that  he  had  seen  a  wood-duck,  which 
we  had  scared  up,  sitting  on  a  tall,  white  pine, 
half  a  mile  downstream;  and  he  repeated  the 
assertion  several  times,  and  seemed  really  cha 
grined  at  the  apparent  suspicion  with  which  this 
information  was  received.  But  there  sat  the 
summer  duck  still,  undisturbed  by  us. 


382  A  WEEK 

By  and  by  the  other  voyageur  returned  from 
his  inland  expedition,  bringing  one  of  the  na 
tives  with  him,  a  little  flaxen-headed  boy,  with 
some  tradition,  or  small  edition,  of  Robinson 
Crusoe  in  his  head,  who  had  been  charmed  by 
the  account  of  our  adventures,  and  asked  his  fa 
ther's  leave  to  join  us.  He  examined,  at  first 
from  the  top  of  the  bank,  our  boat  and  furni 
ture,  with  sparkling  eyes,  and  wished  himself 
already  his  own  man.  He  was  a  lively  and 

y'nteresting  boy,  and  we  should  have  been  glad 
o  ship  him;  but  Nathan  was  still  his  father's 
K>y,  and  had  not  come  to  years  of  discretion. 

We  had  got  a  loaf  of  home-made  bread,  and 
musk  and  water  melons  for  dessert.  For  this 
farmer,  a  clever  and  well-disposed  man,  culti 
vated  a  large  patch  of  melons  for  the  Hooksett 
and  Concord  markets.  He  hospitably  enter 
tained  us  the  next  day,  exhibiting  his  hop-fields 
and  kiln  and  melon  patch,  warning  us  to  step 
over  the  tight  rope  which  surrounded  the  latter 
at  a  foot  from  the  ground,  while  he  pointed  to  a 
little  bower  at  one  corner,  where  it  connected 
rith  the  lock  of  a  gun  ranging  with  the  line, 
twnd  where,  as  he  informed  us,  he  sometimes 
sat  in  pleasant  nights  to  defend  his  premises 
against  thieves.  We  stepped  high  over  the  line, 
and  sympathized  with  our  host's  on  the  whole 
quite  human,  if  not  humane,  interest  in  the  sue- 


WEDNESDAY  883 

cess  of  his  experiment.  That  night  especially 
thieves  were  to  be  expected,  from  rumors  in  the 
atmosphere,  and  the  priming  was  not  wet.  He 
was  a  Methodist  man,  who  had  his  dwelling 
between  the  river  and  Uncannunuc  Mountain; 
who  there  belonged,  and  stayed  at  home  there 
and  by  the  encouragement  of  distant  political  7 
organizations,  and  by  his  own  tenacity,  held  a 
property  in  his  melons,  and  continued  to  plant. 
We  suggested  melon  seeds  of  new  varieties  and 
fruit  of  foreign  flavor  to  be  added  to  his  stock. 
We  had  come  away  up  here  among  the  hills  to 
learn  the  impartial  and  unbribable  beneficence 
of  Nature.  Strawberries  and  melons  grow  as 
well  in  one  man's  garden  as  another's,  and  the 
sun  lodges  as  kindly  under  his  hillside,  —  when 
we  had  imagined  that  she  inclined  rather  to 
some  few  earnest  and  faithful  souls  whom  we 
know. 

We  found  a  convenient  harbor  for  our  boat 
on  the  opposite  or  east  shore,  still  in  Hooksett, 
at  the  mouth  of  a  small  brook  which  emptied 
into  the  Merrimack,  where  it  would  be  out  of 
the  way  of  any  passing  boat  in  the  night,  —  for 
they  commonly  hug  the  shore  if  bound  up 
stream,  either  to  avoid  the  current,  or  touch  the 
bottom  with  their  poles,  —  and  where  it  would 
be  accessible  without  stepping  on  the  clayey 
shore.  We  set  one  of  our  largest  melons  to 


384  A  WEEK 

cool  in  the  still  water  among  the  alders  at  the 
mouth  of  this  creek,  but  when  our  tent  was 
pitched  and  ready,  and  we  went  to  get  it,  it  had 
floated  out  into  the  stream,  and  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen.  So  taking  the  boat  in  the  twilight,  we 
went  in  pursuit  of  this  property,  and  at  length, 
after  long  straining  of  the  eyes,  its  green  disk 
was  discovered  far  down  the  river,  gently  float 
ing  seaward  with  many  twigs  and  leaves  from 
the  mountains  that  evening,  and  so  perfectly 
balanced  that  it  had  not  keeled  at  all,  and  no 
water  had  run  in  at  the  tap  which  had  been 
taken  out  to  hasten  its  cooling. 

As  we  sat  on  the  bank  eating  our  supper,  the 
clear  light  of  the  western  sky  fell  on  the  eastern 
trees,  and  was  reflected  in  the  water,  and  we 
enjoyed  so  serene  an  evening  as  left  nothing  to 
describe.  For  the  most  part  we  think  that 
there  are  few  degrees  of  sublimity,  and  that  the 
highest  is  but  little  higher  than  that  which  we 
now  behold ;  but  we  are  always  deceived.  Sub- 
limer  visions  appear,  and  the  former  pale  and 
fade  away.  We  are  grateful  when  we  are  re 
minded  by  interior  evidence  of  the  permanence 
of  universal  laws;  for  our  faith  is  but  faintly 
remembered,  indeed,  is  not  a  remembered  as 
surance,  but  a  use  and  enjoyment  of  knowledge. 
It  is  when  we  do  not  have  to  believe,  but  come 
into  actual  contact  with  Truth,  and  are  related 


WEDNESDAY  385 

to  her  in  the  most  direct  and  intimate  way. 
Waves  of  serener  life  pass  over  us  from  time 
to  time,  like  flakes  of  sunlight  over  the  fields 
in  cloudy  weather.  In  some  happier  moment, 
when  more  sap  flows  in  the  withered  stalk  of 
our  life,  Syria  and  India  stretch  away  from  our 
present  as  they  do  in  history.  All  the  events 
which  make  the  annals  of  the  nations  are  but 
the  shadows  of  our  private  experiences.  Sud 
denly  and  silently  the  eras  which  we  call  history 
awake  and  glimmer  in  us,  and  there  is  room  for 
Alexander  and  Hannibal  to  march  and  conquer. 
In  short,  the  history  which  we  read  is  only  a 
fainter  memory  of  events  which  have  happened 
in  our  own  experience.  Tradition  is  a  more 
interrupted  and  feebler  memory. 

This  world  is  but  canvas  to  our  imaginations. 
I^see  men  with  infinite  pains  endeavoring— ta 
realize  to  their  bodies,  what_j,  with  at  least 
j?qual  pains,w^ldjreajizjLJax-jny  imagination, 
"^—  its-capacities :  for  certainly  there  is  a  life  of 
the  mind  above  the  wants  of  the  body,  and  inde 
pendent  of  it.  Often  the  body  is  warmed,  but 
the  imagination  is  torpid ;  the  body  is  fat,  but 
the  imagination  is  lean  and  shrunk.  But  what 
avails  all  other  wealth  if  this  is  wanting  ?  "  Im 
agination  is  the  air  of  mind,"  in  which  it  lives 
and  breathes.  All  things  are  a&I  am.  Wharg^ 
™  tibfi  F™m  of  Change?  The  past  is  only  so 


386  A   WEEK 

heroic  as  we  see  it.  It  is  the  canvas  on  which 
our  idea  of  heroism  is  painted,  and  so,  in  one 
sense,  the  dim  prospectus  of  our  future  field. 
Our  circumstances  answer  to  our  expectations 
and  the  demand  of  our  natures.  I  have  noticed 
that  if  a  man  thinks  that  he  needs  a  thousand 
dollars,  and  cannot  be  convinced  that  he  does 
not,  he  will  commonly  be  found  to  have  them  ; 
if  he  lives  and  thinks,  a  thousand  dollars  will  be 
forthcoming,  though  it  be  to  buy  shoe-strings 
with.  A  thousand  mills  will  be  just  as  slow  to 
come  to  one  who  finds  it  equally  hard  to  con 
vince  himself  that  he  needs  them. 

Men  are  by  birth  equal  in  this,  that  given 
Themselves  and.  their  condition,  they  are  even. 

I  am  astonished  at  the  singular   pertinacity 
and  endurance  of  our  lives. 


^ 

that  what  is  is,  when  it  is  so  difficult,  if  not  im 
possible,  for  anything  else  to  be  ;  that  we  walk 
on  in  our  parti(mlar_£athssoj^r,  before  we  fall 
on  death  and  fate,  merely  because  we  inust 
jamjfc  in  pnmn  pntVi  ?,  f.Tiflt.  every  man  can  get  a 
living,  and  so  few  can  do  anything  more,  ^o 
much  only  can  I  accomplish  ere  health  and 
fllnf|  yet  thisjmffices.  The 


bird  now  sits  just  out  of  gunshot.  I  am  never 
rich  in  money,  and  I  am  never  meanly  poor. 
If  debts  are  incurred,  why,  debts  are  in  the 
course  of  events  canceled,  as  it  were,  by  the 


WEDNESDA  Y  387 

same  law  by  which  they  were  incurred.  I  heard 
that  an  engagement  was  entered  into  between  a 
certain  youth  and  a  maiden,  and  then  I  heard 
that  it  was  broken  off,  but  I  did  not  know  the 
reason  in  either  case.  We  are  hedged  about, 
we  think,  by  accident  and  circumstance ;  now  we 
creep  as  in  a  dream,  and  now  again  we  run,  as 
if  there  were  a  fate  in  it,  and  all  things  thwarted 
or  assisted.  I  cannot  change  my  clothes  but 
when  I  do,  and  yet  I  do  change  them,  and  soil 
the  new  ones.  It  is  wonderful  that  this  gets 
done,  when  some  admirable  deeds  which  I  could 
mention  do  not  get  done.  Our  particular  lives 
seem  of  such  fortune  and  confident  strength  and 
durability  as  piers  of  solid  rock  thrown  forward 
into  the  tide  of  circumstance.  When  every 
other  path  would  fail,  with  singular  and  unerr 
ing  confidence  we  advance  on  our  particular 
course.  What  risks  we  run!  famine  and  fire 
and  pestilence,  and  the  thousand  forms  of  a 
cruel  fate,  —  and  yet  every  man  lives  till  he  — 
jdies.  How  did  he  manage  that?  Is  there  no 
immediate  danger?  We  wonder  superfluously 
when  we  hear  of  a  somnambulist  walking  a 
plank  securely,  —  we  have  walked  a  plank  all 
our  lives  up  to  this  particular  string-piece  where 
we  are.  My  life  will  wait  for  nobody,  but  is 
being  matured  still  without  delay,  while  I  go 
about  the  streets,  and  chaffer  with  this  man  and 


388  A  WEEK 

that  to  secure  it  a  living.  It  is  as  indifferent 
and  easy  meanwhile  as  a  poor  man's  dog,  and 
making  acquaintance  with  its  kind.  It  will  cut 
its  own  channel  like  a  mountain  stream,  and  by 
the  longest  ridge  is  not  kept  from  the  sea  at 
last.  I  have  found  all  things  thus  far,  persons 
and  inanimate  matter,  elements  and  seasons, 
strangely  adapted  to  my  resources.  No  matter 
what  imprudent  haste  in  my  career;  I  am  per 
mitted  to  be  rash.  Gulfs  are  bridged  in  a 
twinkling,  as  if  some  unseen  baggage  train  car 
ried  pontoons  for  my  convenience,  and  while 
from  the  heights  I  scan  the  tempting  but  unex 
plored  Pacific  Ocean  of  Futurity,  the  ship  is 
being  carried  over  the  mountains  piecemeal  on 
the  backs  of  mules  and  lamas,  whose  keel  shall 
plough  its  waves,  and  bear  me  to  the  Indies. 
Day  would  not  dawn  if  it  were  not  for 

THE  INWARD   MORNING. 

Packed  in  my  mind  lie  all  the  clothes 

Which  outward  nature  wears, 
And  in  its  fashion's  hourly  change 

It  all  things  else  repairs. 

In  vain  I  look  for  change  abroad, 

And  can  no  difference  find, 
Till  some  new  ray  of  peace  uncalled 

Illumes  my  inmost  mind. 

What  is  it  gilds  the  trees  and  clouds, 
And  paints  the  heavens  so  gay, 


WEDNESDAY  389 

But  yonder  fast-abiding  light 
With  its  unchanging  ray  ? 

Lo,  when  the  sun  streams  through  the  wood 

Upon  a  winter's  morn, 
Where'er  his  silent  beams  intrude 

The  murky  night  is  gone. 

How  could  the  patient  pine  have  known 
The  morning  breeze  would  come, 

Or  humble  flowers  anticipate 
The  insect's  noonday  hum,  — 

Till  the  new  light  with  morning  cheer 
From  far  streamed  through  the  aisles, 

And  nimbly  told  the  forest  trees 
For  many  stretching  miles  ? 

I  Ve  heard  within  my  inmost  soul 

Such  cheerful  morning  news, 
In  the  horizon  of  my  mind 

Have  seen  such  orient  hues, 

As  in  the  twilight  of  the  dawn, 

When  the  first  birds  awake, 
Are  heard  within  some  silent  wood, 

Where  they  the  small  twigs  break, 

Or  in  the  eastern  skies  are  seen, 

Before  the  sun  appears, 
The  harbingers  of  summer  heats 

Which  from  afar  he  bears. 

Whole  weeks  and  months  of  my  summer  life 
slide  away  in  thin  volumes  like  mist  and  smoke, 
till  at  length,  some  warm  morning,  perchance, 
I  see  a  sheet  of  mist  blown  down  the  brook  to 


890  A  WEEK 

the  swamp,  and  I  float  as  high  above  the  fields 
with  it.  I  can  recall  to  mind  the  stillest  sum 
mer  hours,  in  which  the  grasshopper  sings  over 
the  mulleins,  and  there  is  a  valor  in  that  time 
the  bare  memory  of  which  is  armor  that  can 
laugh  at  any  blow  of  fortune.  For  our  lifetime 
the  strains  of  a  harp  are  heard  to  swell  and  die 
alternately,  and  death  is  but  "the  pause  when 
the  blast  is  recollecting  itself." 

We  lay  awake  a  long  while  listening  to  the 
murmurs  of  the  brook,  in  the  angle  formed  by 
whose  bank  with  the  river  our  tent  was  pitched, 
and  there  was  a  sort  of  man  interest  in  its  story, 
which  ceases  not  in  freshet  or  in  drought  the 
livelong  summer,  and  the  profounder  lapse  of 
the  river  was  quite  drowned  by  its  din.  But 
the  rill,  whose 

"  Silver  sands  and  pebbles  sing 
Eternal  ditties  with  the  spring," 

is  silenced  by  the  first  frosts  of  winter,  while 
mightier  streams,  on  whose  bottom  the  sun  never 
shines,  clogged  with  sunken  rocks  and  the  ruins 
of  forests,  from  whose  surface  comes  up  no  mur 
mur,  are  strangers  to  the  icy  fetters  which  bind 
fast  a  thousand  contributory  rills. 

I  dreamed  this  night  of  an  event  which  had 
occurred  long  before.  It  was  a  difference  with 
a  Friend,  which  had  not  ceased  to  give  me  pain, 


WEDNESDA  Y  391 

though  I  had  no  cause  to  blame  myself.  But 
in  my  dream  ideal  justice  was  at  length  done 
me  for  his  suspicions,  and  I  received  that  com 
pensation  which  I  had  never  obtained  in  my 
waking  hours.  I  was  unspeakably  soothed  and 
rejoiced,  even  after  I  awoke,  because  in  dreams 
we  never  deceive  ourselves,  nor  are  deceived, 
and  this  seemed  to  have  the  authority  of  a  final 
judgment. 

We  bless  and  curse  ourselves.  Some  dreams 
are  divine,  as  well  as  some  waking  thoughts. 
Donne  sings  of  one 

"  Who  dreamt  devoutlier  than  moat  use  to  pray." 

Dreams  are  the  touchstones  of  our  characters. 
We  are  scarcely  less  afflicted  when  we  remem 
ber  some  unworthiness  in  our  conduct  in  a 
dream,  than  if  it  had  been  actual,  and  the  in 
tensity  of  our  grief,  which  is  our  atonement, 
measures  the  degree  by  which  this  is  separated 
from  an  actual  unworthiness.  For  in  dreams 
we  but  act  a  part  which  must  have  been  learned 
and  rehearsed  in  our  waking  hours,  and  no 
doubt  could  discover  some  waking  consent 
thereto.  If  this  meanness  had  not  its  founda 
tion  in  us,  why  are  we  grieved  at  it?  In  dreams 
we  see  ourselves  naked  and  acting  out  our  real 
characters,  even  more  clearly  than  we  see  others 
awake.  But  an  unwavering  and  commanding 


892  A   WEEK 

virtue  would  compel  even  its  most  fantastic  and 
faintest  dreams  to  respect  its  ever-wakeful  au 
thority;  as  we  are  accustomed  to  say  carelessly, 
we  should  never  have  dreamed  of  such  a  thing. 
Our  truest  life  is  when  we  are  in  dreams  awake. 

"  And,  more  to  lulle  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 
A  trickling  streame  from  high  rock  tumbling  downe, 
And  ever-drizzling  raine  upon  the  loft, 
Mixt  with  a  murmuring  winde,  much  like  the  sowne 
Of  swarming  bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swowne. 
No  other  noyse,  nor  people's  troublous  cryes, 
As  still  are  wont  t'  annoy  the  walled  towne, 
Might  there  be  heard ;  but  careless  Quiet  lyes 
Wrapt  in  eternall  silence  farre  from  enemyea." 


THUKSDAY. 


*4  He  trode  the  unplanted  forest  floor,  whereon 
The  all-seeing  sun  for  ages  hath  not  shone, 
Where  feeds  the  moose,  and  walks  the  surly  bear, 
And  up  the  tall  mast  runs  the  woodpecker. 

Where  darkness  found  him  he  lay  glad  at  night ; 
There  the  red  morning  touched  him  with  its  light. 

Go  where  he  will,  the  wise  man  is  at  home, 
Hie  hearth  the  earth,  —  his  hall  the  azure  dome  ; 
Where  his  clear  spirit  leads  him,  there  's  his  road, 
By  God's  own  light  illumined  and  foreshowed." 


WHEN  we  awoke  this  morning,  we  heard  the 
faint,  deliberate,  and  ominous  sound  of  rain 
drops  on  our  cotton  roof.  The  rain  had  pattered 
all  night,  and  now  the  whole  country  wept,  the 
drops  falling  in  the  river,  and  on  the  alders, 
and  in  the  pastures,  and  instead  of  any  bow 
in  the  heavens,  there  was  the  trill  of  the  hair- 
bird  all  the  morning.  The  cheery  faith  of  this 
little  bird  atoned  for  the  silence  of  the  whole 
woodland  choir  beside.  When  we  first  stepped 
abroad,  a  flock  of  sheep,  led  by  their  rams, 
came  rushing  down  a  ravine  in  our  rear,  with 
heedless  haste  and  unreserved  frisking,  as  if 
unobserved  by  man,  from  some  higher  pasture 
where  they  had  spent  the  night,  to  taste  the 


894  A   WEEK 

herbage  by  the  river-side ;  but  when  their  lead 
ers  caught  sight  of  our  white  tent  through  the 
mist,  struck  with  sudden  astonishment,  with 
their  fore-feet  braced,  they  sustained  the  rush 
ing  torrent  in  their  rear,  and  the  whole  flock 
stood  stock-still,  endeavoring  to  solve  the  mys 
tery  in  their  sheepish  brains.  At  length,  con 
cluding  that  it  boded  no  mischief  to  them,  they 
spread  themselves  out  quietly  over  the  field. 
We  learned  afterward  that  we  had  pitched  our 
tent  on  the  very  spot  which  a  few  summers  be 
fore  had  been  occupied  by  a  party  of  Penob- 
scots.  We  could  see  rising  before  us  through 
the  mist  a  dark  conical  eminence  called  Hook- 
sett  Pinnacle,  a  landmark  to  boatmen,  and  also 
Uncannunuc  Mountain,  broad  off  on  the  west 
side  of  the  river. 

This  was  the  limit  of  our  voyage,  for  a  few 
hours  more  in  the  rain  would  have  taken  us  to 
the  last  of  the  locks,  and  our  boat  was  too  heavy 
to  be  dragged  around  the  long  and  numerous 
rapids  which  would  occur.  On  foot,  however, 
we  continued  up  along  the  bank,  feeling  our 
way  with  a  stick  through  the  showery  and  foggy 
day,  and  climbing  over  the  slippery  logs  in  our 
path  with  as  much  pleasure  and  buoyancy  as 
in  brightest  sunshine;  scenting  the  fragrance 
of  the  pines  and  the  wet  clay  under  our  feet, 
and  cheered  by  the  tones  of  invisible  waterfalls; 


THURSDAY  395 

with  visions  of  toadstools,  and  wandering  frogs, 
and  festoons  of  moss  hanging  from  the  spruce- 
trees,  and  thrushes  flitting  silent  under  the 
leaves ;  our  road  still  holding  together  through 
that  wettest  of  weather,  like  faith,  while  we 
confidently  followed  its  lead.  We  managed  te 
keep  our  thoughts  dry,  however,  and  only  our 
clothes  were  wet.  It  was  altogether  a  cloudy 
and  drizzling  day,  with  occasional  brightenings 
in  the  mist,  when  the  trill  of  the  tree-sparrow 
seemed  to  be  ushering  in  sunny  hours. 

"Nothing  that  naturally  happens  to  man  can 
hurt  him,  earthquakes  and  thunderstorms  not 
exeepted,"  said  a  man  of  genius,  who  at  this 
time  lived  a  few  miles  farther  on  our  road. 
When  compelled  by  a  shower  to  take  shelter 
under  a  tree,  we  may  improve  that  opportunity 
for  a  more  minute  inspection  of  some  of  Na 
ture's  works.  I  have  stood  under  a  tree  in  the 
woods  half  a  day  at  a  time,  during  a  heavy  rain 
in  the  summer,  and  yet  employed  myself  happily 
and  profitably  there  prying  with  microscopic  eye 
into  the  crevices  of  the  bark  or  the  leaves  of  the 
fungi  at  my  feet.  "  Riches  are  the  attendants 
of  the  miser;  and  the  heavens  rain  plenteously 
upon  the  mountains."  I  can  fancy  that  it 
would  be  a  luxury  to  stand  up  to  one's  chin  in 
some  retired  swamp  a  whole  summer  day,  scent 
ing  the  wild  honeysuckle  and  bilberry  blows, 


396  A   WEEK 

and  lulled  by  the  minstrelsy  of  gnats  and  mos 
quitoes  !  A  day  passed  in  the  society  of  those 
Greek  sages,  such  as  described  in  the  Banquet 
of  Xenophon,  would  not  be  comparable  with 
the  dry  wit  of  decayed  cranberry  vines,  and  the 
fresh  Attic  salt  of  the  moss-beds.  Say  twelve 
hours  of  genial  and  familiar  converse  with  the 
leopard  frog;  the  sun  to  rise  behind  alder  and 
dogwood,  and  climb  buoyantly  to  his  meridian 
of  two  hands'  breadth,  and  finally  sink  to  rest 
behind  some  bold  western  hummock.  To  hear 
the  evening  chant  of  the  mosquito  from  a  thou 
sand  green  chapels,  and  the  bittern  begin  to 
boom  from  some  concealed  fort  like  a  sunset 
gun !  Surely  one  may  as  profitably  be  soaked 
in  the  juices  of  a  swamp  for  one  day  as  pick  his 
way  dry-shod  over  sand.  Cold  and  damp,  — 
are  they  not  as  rich  experience  as  warmth  and 
dryness  ? 

At  present,  the  drops  come  trickling  down 
the  stubble  while  we  lie  drenched  on  a  bed  of 
withered  wild  oats,  by  the  side  of  a  bushy  hill, 
and  the  gathering  in  of  the  clouds,  with  the  last 
rush  and  dying  breath  of  the  wind,  and  then 
the  regular  dripping  of  twigs  and  leaves  the 
country  over,  enhance  the  sense  of  inward  com 
fort  and  sociableness.  The  birds  draw  closer 
and  are  more  familiar  under  the  thick  foliage, 
seemingly  composing  new  strains  upon  their 


THURSDAY  397 

roosts  against  the  sunshine.  What  were  the 
amusements  of  the  drawing-room  and  the  library 
in  comparison,  if  we  had  them  here?  We 
should  still  sing  as  of  old,  — 

My  books  I  'd  fain  cast  off,  I  cannot  read, 
'Twixt  every  page  my  thoughts  go  stray  at  large 
Down  in  the  meadow,  where  is  richer  feed, 
And  will  not  mind  to  hit  their  proper  targe. 

Plutarch  was  good,  and  so  was  Homer  too, 
Our  Shakespeare's  life  were  rich  to  live  again, 
What  Plutarch  read,  that  was  not  good  nor  true, 
Nor  Shakespeare's  books,  unless  his  books  were  men. 

Here  while  I  lie  beneath  this  walnut  bough, 
What  care  I  for  the  Greeks  or  for  Troy  town, 
If  juster  battles  are  enacted  now 
Between  the  ants  upon  this  hummock's  crown  ? 

Bid  Homer  waft  till  I  the  issue  learn, 
If  red  or  black  the  gods  will  favor  most, 
Or  yonder  Ajax  will  the  phalanx  turn, 
Struggling  to  heave  some  rock  against  the  host. 

Tell  Shakespeare  to  attend  some  leisure  hour, 
For  now  I  've  business  with  this  drop  of  dew, 
And  see  you  not,  the  clouds  prepare  a  shower,  — 
I  '11  meet  him  shortly  when  the  sky  is  blue. 

This  bed  of  herd's-grass  and  wild  oats  was  spread 
Last  year  with  nicer  skill  than  monarchs  use, 
A  clover  tuft  is  pillow  for  my  head, 
And  violets  quite  overtop  my  shoes. 

And  now  the  cordial  clouds  have  shut  all  in, 
And  gently  swells  the  wind  to  say  all  's  well, 


398  A   WEEK 

The  scattered  drops  are  falling  fast  and  thin, 
Some  in  the  pool,  some  in  the  flower-bell. 

I  am  well  drenched  upon  my  bed  of  oats  ; 
But  see  that  globe  come  rolling  down  its  stem ; 
Now  like  a  lonely  planet  there  it  floats, 
And  now  it  sinks  into  my  garment's  hem. 

Drip,  drip  the  trees  for  all  the  country  round, 
And  richness  rare  distills  from  every  bough, 
The  wind  alone  it  is  makes  every  sound, 
Shaking  down  crystals  on  the  leaves  below. 

For  shame  the  sun  will  never  show  himself, 
Who  could  not  with  his  beams  e'er  melt  me  so, 
My  dripping  locks,  —  they  would  become  an  elf, 
Who  in  a  beaded  coat  does  gayly  go. 

The  Pinnacle  is  a  small  wooded  hill  which 
rises  very  abruptly  to  the  height  of  about  two 
hundred  feet,  near  the  shore  at  Hooksett  Falls. 
As  Uncannunuc  Mountain  is  perhaps  the  best 
point  from  which  to  view  the  valley  of  the 
Merrimack,  so  this  hill  affords  the  best  view  of 
the  river  itself.  I  have  sat  upon  its  summit,  a 
precipitous  rock  only  a  few  rods  long,  in  fairer 
weather,  when  the  sun  was  setting  and  filling 
the  river  valley  with  a  flood  of  light.  You  can 
see  up  and  down  the  Merrimack  several  miles 
each  way.  The  broad  and  straight  river,  full 
of  light  and  life,  with  its  sparkling  and  foaming 
falls,  the  islet  which  divides  the  stream,  the  vil 
lage  of  Hooksett  on  the  shore  almost  directly 


THURSDAY  399 

under  your  feet,  so  near  that  you  can  converse 
with  its  inhabitants  or  throw  a  stone  into  its 
yards,  the  woodland  lake  at  its  western  base, 
and  the  mountains  in  the  north  and  northeast, 
make  a  scene  of  rare  beauty  and  completeness, 
which  the  traveler  should  take  pains  to  behold. 

We  were  hospitably  entertained  in  Concord, 
New  Hampshire,  which  we  persisted  in  calling 
New  Concord,  as  we  had  been  wont,  to  distin 
guish  it  from  our  native  town,  from  which  we 
had  been  told  that  it  was  named  and  in  part 
originally  settled.  This  would  have  been  the 
proper  place  to  conclude  our  voyage,  uniting 
Concord  with  Concord  by  these  meandering 
rivers,  but  our  boat  was  moored  some  miles 
below  its  port. 

The  richness  of  the  intervals  at  Penacook, 
now  Concord,  New  Hampshire,  had  been  ob 
served  by  explorers,  and,  according  to  the  histo 
rian  of  Haverhill,  in"  the  "year  1726,  considera 
ble  progress  was  made  in  the  settlement,  and  a 
road  was  cut  through  the  wilderness  from  Ha 
verhill  to  Penacook.  In  the  fall  of  1727,  the 
first  family,  that  of  Captain  Ebenezer  Eastman, 
moved  into  the  place.  His  team  was  driven  by 
Jacob  Shute,  who  was  by  birth  a  Frenchman, 
and  he  is  said  to  have  been  the  first  person  who 
drove  a  team  through  the  wilderness.  Soon 
after,  says  tradition,  one  Ayer,  a  lad  of  eigh- 


400  A  WEEK 

teen  drove  a  team  consisting  of  ten  yoke  of  oxen 
to  Penacook,  swam  the  river,  and  ploughed  a 
portion  of  the  interval.  He  is  supposed  to  have 
been  the  first  person  who  ploughed  land  in  that 
place.  After  he  had  completed  his  work,  he 
started  on  his  return  at  sunrise,  drowned  a  yoke 
of  oxen  while  recrossing  the  river,  and  arrived 
at  Haverhill  about  midnight.  The  crank  of  the 
first  saw-mill  was  manufactured  in  Haverhill, 
and  carried  to  Penacook  on  a  horse." 

But  we  found  that  the  frontiers  were  not  this 
way  any  longer.  This  generation  has  come 
into  the  world  fatally  late  for  some  enterprises. 
Go  where  we  will  on  the  surface  of  things,  men 
have  been  there  before  us.  We  cannot  now 
have  the  pleasure  of  erecting  the  last  house; 
that  was  long  ago  set  up  in  the  suburbs  of  As 
toria  City,  and  our  boundaries  have  literally 
been  run  to  the  South  Sea,  according  to  the  old 
patents.  But  the  lives  of  men,  though  more 
extended  laterally  in  their  range,  are  still  as 
shallow  as  ever.  Undoubtedly,  as  a  Western 
orator  said,  "Men  generally  live  over  about  the 
same  surface  ;  some  live  long  and  narrow,  and 
others  live  broad  and  short;"  but  it  is  all  su 
perficial  living.  A  worm  is  as  good  a  traveler 
as  a  grasshopper  or  a  cricket,  and  a  much  wiser 
settler.  With  all  their  activity  these  do  not 
hop  away  from  drought  nor  forward  to  summer. 


THURSDAY  401 

We  do  not  avoid  evil  by  fleeing  before  it,  but 
by  rising  above  or  diving  below  its  plane;  as 
the  worm  escapes  drought  and  frost  by  boring  a 
few  inches  deeper.  The  frontiers  are  not  east 
or  west,  north  or  south,  but  wherever  a  man 
fronts  a  fact,  though  that  fact  be  his  neighbor, 
there  is  an  unsettled  wilderness  between  him 
and  Canada,  between  him  and  the  setting  sun, 
or,  farther  still,  between  him  and  it.  Let  him 
build  himself  a  log-house  with  the  bark  on 
where  he  is,  fronting  IT,  and  wage  there  an 
Old  French  war  for  seven  or  seventy  years, 
with  Indians  and  Rangers,  or  whatever  else  may 
come  between  him  and  the  reality,  and  save  his 
scalp  if  he  can. 

We  now  no  longer  sailed  or  floated  on  the 
river,  but  trod  the  unyielding  land  like  pil 
grims.  Sadi  tells  who  may  travel;  among 
others,  "A  common  mechanic,  who  can  earn  a 
subsistence  by  the  industry  of  his  hand,  and 
shall  not  have  to  stake  his  reputation  for  every 
morsel  of  bread,  as  philosophers  have  said." 
He  may  travel  who  can  subsist  on  the  wild 
fruits  and  game  of  the  most  cultivated  country. 
A  man  may  travel  fast  enough  and  earn  his  liv 
ing  on  the  road.  I  have  at  times  been  applied 
to,  to  do  work  when  on  a  journey;  to  do  tinker 
ing  and  repair  clocks,  when  I  had  a  knapsack 


402  A  WEEK 

on  my  back.  A  man  once  applied  to  me  to  go 
into  a  factory,  stating  conditions  and  wages, 
observing  that  I  succeeded  in  shutting  the  win 
dow  of  a  railroad  car  in  which  we  were  trav 
eling,  when  the  other  passengers  had  failed. 
"Hast  thou  not  heard  of  a  Sufi,  who  was 
hammering  some  nails  into  the  sole  of  his 
sandal;  an  officer  of  cavalry  took  him  by  the 
sleeve,  saying,  Come  along  and  shoe  my  horse." 
Farmers  have  asked  me  to  assist  them  in  haying 
when  I  was  passing  their  fields.  A  man  once 
applied  to  me  to  mend  his  umbrella,  taking  me 
for  an  umbrella-mender,  because,  being  on  a 
journey,  I  carried  an  umbrella  in  my  hand 
while  the  sun  shone.  Another  wished  to  buy 
a  tin  cup  of  me,  observing  that  I  had  one 
strapped  to  my  belt,  and  a  sauce-pan  on  my 
back.  The  cheapest  way  to  travel,  and  the  way 
to  travel  the  farthest  in  the  shortest  distance, 
is  to  go  afoot,  carrying  a  dipper,  a  spoon,  and 
a  fish-line,  some  Indian  meal,  some  salt,  and 
some  sugar.  When  you  come  to  a  brook  or 
pond,  you  can  catch  fish  and  cook  them ;  or  you 
can  boil  a  hasty-pudding ;  or  you  can  buy  a  loaf 
of  bread  at  a  farmer's  house  for  fourpence, 
moisten  it  in  the  next  brook  that  crosses  the 
road,  and  dip  into  it  your  sugar,  —  this  alone 
will  last  you  a  whole  day ;  —  or,  if  you  are  ac 
customed  to  heartier  living,  you  can  buy  a 


THURSDAY  403 

quart  of  milk  for  two  cents,  crumb  your  bread 
or  cold  pudding  into  it,  and  eat  it  with  your 
own  spoon  out  of  your  own  dish.  Any  one  of 
these  things  I  mean,  not  all  together.  I  have 
traveled  thus  some  hundreds  of  miles  without 
taking  any  meal  in  a  house,  sleeping  on  the 
ground  when  convenient,  and  found  it  cheaper, 
and  in  many  respects  more  profitable,  than 
staying  at  home.  So  that  some  have  inquired 
why  it  would  not  be  best  to  travel  always.  But 
I  never  thought  of  traveling  simply  as  a  means 
of  getting  a  livelihood.  A  simple  woman  down 
in  Tyngsborough,  at  whose  house  I  once  stopped 
to  get  a  draught  of  water,  when  I  said,  recog 
nizing  the  bucket,  that  I  had  stopped  there  nine 
years  before  for  the  same  purpose,  asked  if  I 
was  not  a  traveler,  supposing  that  I  had  been 
traveling  ever  since,  and  had  now  come  round 
again;  that  traveling  was  one  of  the  profes 
sions,  more  or  less  productive,  which  her  hus 
band  did  not  follow.  But  continued  traveling 
is  far  from  productive.  It  begins  with  wearing 
away  the  soles  of  the  shoes,  and  making  the  feet 
sore,  and  erelong  it  will  wear  a  man  clean  up, 
after  making  his  heart  sore  into  the  bargain.  I 
have  observed  that  the  after-life  of  those  who 
have  traveled  much  is  very  pathetic.  True 
and  sincere  traveling  is  no  pastime,  but  it  is  as 
serious  as  the  grave,  or  any  part  of  the  human 


404  A  WEEK 

journey,  and  it  requires  a  long  probation  to  be 
broken  into  it.  I  do  not  speak  of  those  that 
travel  sitting,  the  sedentary  travelers  whose  legs 
hang  dangling  the  while,  mere  idle  symbols 
of  the  fact,  any  more  than  when  we  speak  of 
sitting  hens  we  mean  those  that  sit  standing, 
but  I  mean  those  to  whom  traveling  is  life  for 
the  legs,  and  death  too,  at  last.  The  traveler 
must  be  born  again  on  the  road,  and  earn  a 
passport  from  the  elements,  the  principal  powers 
that  be  for  him.  He  shall  experience  at  last 
that  old  threat_pf  his  mother  fulfilled^jthat  he 
shall  be  skinned  alive.  His  sores  shalTgrad- 
ually  deepen  themselves  that  they  may  heal  in 
wardly,  while  he  gives  no  rest  to  the  sole  of  his 
foot,  and  at  night  weariness  must  be  his  pillow, 
that  so  he  may  acquire  experience  against  his 
rainy  days.  So  was  it  with  us. 

Sometimes  we  lodged  at  an  inn  in  the  woods, 
where  trout  fishers  from  distant  cities  had  ar 
rived  before  us,  and  where,  to  our  astonish 
ment,  the  settlers  dropped  in  at  nightfall  to 
have  a  chat  and  hear  the  news,  though  there 
was  but  one  road,  and  no  other  house  was  visi 
ble,  —  as  if  they  had  come  out  of  the  earth. 
There  we  sometimes  read  old  newspapers,  who 
never  before  read  new  ones,  and  in  the  rustle  of 
their  leaves  heard  the  dashing  of  the  surf  along 
the  Atlantic  shore,  instead  of  the  sough  of  the 


THURSDAY  405 

wind  among  the  pines.  But  then  walking  had 
given  us  an  appetite  even  for  the  least  palatable 
and  nutritious  food. 

Some  hard  and  dry  book  in  a  dead  language, 
which  you  have  found  it  impossible  to  read  at 
home,  but  for  which  you  have  still  a  lingering 
regard,  is  the  best  to  carry  with  you  on  a  jour 
ney.  At  a  country  inn,  in  the  barren  society 
of  ostlers  and  travelers,  I  could  undertake  the 
writers  of  the  silver  or  the  brazen  age  with  con 
fidence.  Almost  the  last  regular  service  which 
I  performed  in  the  cause  of  literature  was  to 
read  the  works  of 

AULUS   PERSIUS   FLACCUS. 

If  you  have  imagined  what  a  divine  work  is 
spread  out  for  the  poet,  and  approach  this  au 
thor  too,  in  the  hope  of  finding  the  field  at  length 
fairly  entered  on,  you  will  hardly  dissent  from 
the  words  of  the  prologue, — 

"  Ipse  semipaganus 
Ad  sacra  Vatum  carmen  affero  nostrum.'* 

I  half  pagan 
Bring  my  verses  to  the  shrine  of  the  poets. 

Here  is  none  of  the  interior  dignity  of  Virgil, 
nor  the  elegance  and  vivacity  of  Horace,  nor 
will  any  sibyl  be  needed  to  remind  you,  that 
from  those  older  Greek  poets  there  is  a  sad  de 
scent  to  Persius.  You  can  scarcely  distinguish 


406  A   WEEK 

one  harmonious  sound  amid  this  unmusical  bick 
ering  with  the  follies  of  men. 

One  sees  that  music  has  its  place  in  thought, 
but  hardly  as  yet  in  language.  When  the 
Muse  arrives,  we  wait  for  her  to  remould  lan 
guage,  and  impart  to  it  her  own  rhythm. 
Hitherto  the  verse  groans  and  labors  with  its 
load,  and  goes  not  forward  blithely,  singing  by 
the  way.  The  best  ode  may  be  parodied,  in 
deed  is  itself  a  parody,  and  has  a  poor  and  triv 
ial  sound,  like  a  man  stepping  on  the  rounds  of 
a  ladder.  Homer  and  Shakespeare  and  Milton 
and  Marvell  and  Wordsworth  are  but  the  rub- 
tling  of  leaves  and  crackling  of  twigs  in  the  for 
est,  and  there  is  not  yet  the  sound  of  any  bird. 
The  Muse  has  never  lifted  up  her  voice  to  sing. 
Most  of  all,  satire  will  not  be  sung.  A  Juvenal 
or  Persius  do  not  marry  music  to  their  verse, 
but  are  measured  fault-finders  at  best;  stand 
but  just  outside  the  faults  they  condemn,  and 
so  are  concerned  rather  about  the  monster  which 
they  have  escaped,  than  the  fair  prospect  before 
them.  Let  them  live  on  an  age,  and  they  will 
have  traveled  out  of  his  shadow  and  reach,  and 
found  other  objects  to  ponder. 

As  long  as  there  is  satire,  the  poet  is,  as  it 
were,  particeps  criminis.  One  sees  not  but  he 
had  best  let  bad  take  care  of  itself,  and  have 
to  do  only  with  what  is  beyond  suspicion.  If 


THURSDAY  407 

you  light  on  the  least  vestige  of  truth,  and  it  is 
the  weight  of  the  whole  body  still  which  stamps 
the  faintest  trace,  an  eternity  will  not  suffice  to 
extol  it,  while  no  evil  is  so  huge,  but  you  grudge 
to  bestow  on  it  a  moment  of  hate.  Truth  never 
turns  to  rebuke  falsehood ;  her  own  straightfor 
wardness  is  the  severest  correction,  Horace 
would  not  have  written  satire  so  well  if  he  had 
not  been  inspired  by  it,  as  by  a  passion,  and 
fondly  cherished  his  vein.  In  his  odes,  the  love 
always  exceeds  the  hate,  so  that  the  severest 
satire  still  sings  itself,  and  the  poet  is  satisfied, 
though  the  folly  be  not  corrected. 

A  sort  of  necessary  order  in  the  development 
of  Genius  is,  first,  Complaint;  second,  Plaint; 
third,  Love.  Complaint,  which  is  the  condition 
of  Persius,  lies  not  in  the  province  of  poetry. 
Erelong  the  enjoyment  of  a  superior  good  would 
have  changed  his  disgust  into  regret.  We  can 
never  have  much  sympathy  with  the  complainer ; 
for  after  searching  nature  through,  we  conclude 
that  he  must  be  both  plaintiff  and  defendant 
too,  and  so  had  best  come  to  a  settlement  with 
out  a  hearing.  He  who  receives  an  injury  is  to 
some  extent  an  accomplice  of  the  wrong-doer. 

Perhaps  it  would  be  truer  to  say,  that  the 
highest  strain  of  the  muse  is  essentially  plain 
tive.  The  saint's  are  still  tears  of  joy.  Who 
has  ever  head  the  Innocent  sing? 


408  A    WEEK 

But  the  divinest  poem,  or  the  life  of  a  great 
man,  is  the  severest  satire;  as  impersonal  as 
Nature  herself,  and  like  the  sighs  of  her  winds 
in  the  woods,  which  convey  ever  a  slight  reproof 
to  the  hearer.  The  greater  the  genius,  the 
keener  the  edge  of  the  satire. 

Hence  we  have  to  do  only  with  the  rare  and 
fragmentary  traits,  which  least  belong  to  Per- 
sius,  or  shall  we  say,  are  the  properest  utter 
ances  of  his  muse ;  since  that  which  he  says  best 
at  any  time  is  what  he  can  best  say  at  all  times. 
The  Spectators  and  Ramblers  have  not  failed  to 
cull  some  quotable  sentences  from  this  garden 
too,  so  pleasant  is  it  to  meet  even  the  most  fa 
miliar  truth  in  a  new  dress,  when,  if  our  neigh 
bor  had  said  it,  we  should  have  passed  it  by  as 
hackneyed.  Out  of  these  six  satires,  you  may 
perhaps  select  some  twenty  lines,  which  fit  so 
well  as  many  thoughts,  that  they  will  recur  to 
the  scholar  almost  as  readily  as  a  natural  image ; 
though  when  translated  into  familiar  language, 
they  lose  that  insular  emphasis,  which  fitted 
them  for  quotation.  Such  lines  as  the  follow 
ing,  translation  cannot  render  commonplace. 
Contrasting  the  man  of  true  religion  with  those 
jvho,  with  jealous  privacy,  would  fain  carry  on 
a  secret  commerce  with  the  gods,  he  says :  — 

**  Haud  cuivis  promptum  est,  murmurque  humilesque  susurroa 
Tollere  de  templis ;  et  aperto  vivere  voto." 


THURSDAY  409 

It  is  not  easy  for  every  one  to  take  murmurs  and  low 
Whispers  out  of  the  temples,  and  live  with  open  vow. 

To  the  virtuous  man,  the  universe  is  the  only 
sanctum,  sanctorum^  and  the  penetralia  of  the 
temple  are  the  broad  noon  of  his  existence. 
Why  should  he  betake  himself  to  a  subterranean 
crypt,  as  if  it  were  the  only  holy  ground  in  all 
the  world  which  he  had  left  unprofaned?  The 
obedient  soul  would  only  the  more  discover  and 
familiarize  things,  and  escape  more  and  more 
into  light  and  air,  as  having  henceforth  done 
with  secrecy,  so  that  the  universe  shall  not  seem 
open  enough  for  it.  At  length,  it  is  neglectful 
even  of  that  silence  which  is  consistent  with  true 
modesty,  but  by  its  independence  of  all  confi 
dence  in  its  disclosures  makes  that  which  it  im 
parts  so  private  to  the  hearer,  that  it  becomes 
the  care  of  the  whole  world  that  modesty  be  not 
infringed. 

To  the  man  who  cherishes  a  secret  in  his 
breast,  there  is  a  still  greater  secret  unexplored. 
Our  most  indifferent  acts  may  be  matter  for 
secrecy,  but  whatever  we  do  with  the  utmost 
truthfulness  and  integrity,  by  virtue  of  its  pure- 
ness,  must  be  transparent  as  light. 

In  the  third  satire,  he  asks :  — 

"  Est  aliquid  quo  tendis,  et  in  quod  dirigis  arcum  ? 
An  passim  sequeris  corvos,  teststve,  lutove, 
Securus  quo  pes  f  erat,  atque  ex  tempore  vivis  ?  " 


410  A   WEEK 

Is  there  anything  to  which  thou  tendest,  and  against  which 

thou  directest  thy  bow  ? 

Or  dost  thou  pursue  crows,  at  random,  with  pottery  or  clay, 
Careless  whither  thy  feet  bear  thee,  and  live  ex  tempore  ? 

The  bad  sense  is  always  a  secondary  one. 
Language  does  not  appear  to  have  justice  done 
it,  but  is  obviously  cramped  and  narrowed  in  its 
significance,  when  any  meanness  is  described. 
The  truest  construction  is  not  put  upon  it. 
What  may  readily  be  fashioned  into  a  rule  of 
wisdom  is  here  thrown  in  the  teeth  of  the  slug 
gard,  and  constitutes  the  front  of  his  offense. 
Universally,  the  innocent  man  will  come  forth 
from  the  sharpest  inquisition  and  lecturing,  the 
combined  din  of  reproof  and  commendation, 
with  a  faint  sound  of  eulogy  in  his  ears.  Our 
vices  always  lie  in  the  direction  of  our  virtues, 
and  in  their  best  estate  are  but  plausible  imita 
tions  of  the  latter.  Falsehood  never  attains  to 
the  dignity  of  entire  falseness,  but  is  only  an 
inferior  sort  of  truth ;  if  it  were  more  thoroughly 
false,  it  would  incur  danger  of  becoming  true. 

"  Securus  quo  pes  ferat,  atque  ex  tempore  vivit,  " 

is  then  the  motto  of  a  wise  man.  For  first,  as 
the  subtle  discernment  of  the  language  would 
have  taught  us,  with  all  his  negligence  he  is  still 
secure;  but  the  sluggard,  notwithstanding  his 
heedlessness,  is  insecure. 

The  life  of  a  wise  man  is  most  of  all  extern- 


THURSDAY  411 

poraneous,  for  he  lives  out  of  an  eternity  which 
includes  all  time.  The  cunning  mind  travels 
further  back  than  Zoroaster  each  instant,  and 
comes  quite  down  to  the  present  with  its  revela 
tion.  The  utmost  thrift  and  industry  of  think 
ing  give  no  man  any  stock  in  life;  his  credit 
with  the  inner  world  is  no  better,  his  capital  no 
larger.  He  must  try  his  fortune  again  to-day 
as  yesterday.  All  questions  rely  on  the  present 
for  their  solution.  Time  measures  nothing  but 
itself.  The  word  that  is  written  may  be  post 
poned,  but  not  that  on  the  lip.  If  this  is  what 
the  occasion  says,  let  the  occasion  say  it.  All 
the  world  is  forward  to  prompt  him  who  gets  up 
to  live  without  his  creed  in  his  pocket. 

In  the  fifth  satire,  which  is  the  best,  I  find,  — 

"Stat  contra  ratio,  et  secretam  garrit  in  aurem, 
Ne  liceat  facere  id,  quod  quis  vitiabit  agendo." 

Reason  opposes,  and  whispers  in  the  secret  ear, 

That  it  is  not  lawful  to  do  that  which  one  will  spoil  by  doing. 

Only  they  who  do  not  see  how  anything  might 
be  better  done  are  forward  to  try  their  hand 
on  it.  Even  the  master  workman  must  be  en 
couraged  by  the  reflection  that  his  awkwardness 
will  be  incompetent  to  do  that  thing  harm,  to 
which  his  skill  may  fail  to  do  justice.  Here  is 
no  apology  for  neglecting  to  do  many  things 
from  a  sense  of  our  incapacity,  —  for  what  deed 


412  A  WEEK 

does  not  fall  maimed  and  imperfect  from  our 
hands?  — but  only  a  warning  to  bungle  less. 

The  satires  of  Persius  are  the  furthest  pos 
sible  from  inspired;  evidently  a  chosen,  not 
imposed  subject.  Perhaps  I  have  given  him 
credit  for  more  earnestness  than  is  apparent; 
but  it  is  certain  that  that  which  alone  we  can 
call  Persius,  which  is  forever  independent  and 
consistent,  was  in  earnest,  and  so  sanctions  the 
sober  consideration  of  all.  The  artist  and  his 
work  are  not  to  be  separated.  The  most  will 
fully  foolish  man  cannot  stand  aloof  from  his 
folly,  but  the  deed  and  the  doer  together  make 
ever  one  sober  fact.  There  is  but  one  stage  for 
the  peasant  and  the  actor.  The  buffoon  cannot 
bribe  you  to  laugh  always  at  his  grimaces ;  they 
shall  sculpture  themselves  in  Egyptian  granite, 
to  stand  heavy  as  the  pyramids  on  the  ground 
of  his  character. 


Suns  rose  and  set  and  found  us  still  on  the 
dank  forest  path  which  meanders  up  the  Pemige- 
wasset,  now  more  like  an  otter's  or  a  marten's 
trail,  or  where  a  beaver  had  dragged  his  trap, 
than  where  the  wheels  of  travel  raise  a  dust; 
where  towns  begin  to  serve  as  gores,  only  to 
hold  the  earth  together.  The  wild  pigeon  sat 
secure  above  our  heads,  high  on  the  dead  limbs 


THURSDAY  413 

of  naval  pines,  reduced  to  a  robin's  size.  The 
very  yards  of  our  hostelries  inclined  upon  the 
skirts  of  mountains,  and,  as  we  passed,  we 
looked  up  at  a  steep  angle  at  the  stems  of  maples 
waving  in  the  clouds. 

Far  up  in  the  country,  —  for  we  would  be 
faithful  to  our  experience,  —  in  Thornton,  per 
haps,  we  met  a  soldier  lad  in  the  woods,  going 
to  muster  in  full  regimentals,  and  holding  the 
middle  of  the  road;  deep  in  the  forest,  with 
shouldered  musket  and  military  step,  and 
thoughts  of  war  and  glory  all  to  himself.  It 
was  a  sore  trial  to  the  youth,  tougher  than  many 
a  battle,  to  get  by  us  creditably  and  with  sol 
dier-like  bearing.  Poor  man!  He  actually 
shivered  like  a  reed  in  his  thin  military  pants, 
and  by  the  time  we  had  got  up  with  him,  all  the 
sternness  that  becomes  the  soldier  had  forsaken 
his  face,  and  he  skulked  past  as  if  he  were 
driving  his  father's  sheep  under  a  sword-proof 
helmet.  It  was  too  much  for  him  to  carry 
any  extra  armor  then,  who  could  not  easily  dis 
pose  of  his  natural  arms.  And  for  his  legs, 
they  were  like  heavy  artillery  in  boggy  places ; 
better  to  cut  the  traces  and  forsake  them.  His 
greaves  chafed  and  wrestled  one  with  another 
for  want  of  other  foes.  But  he  did  get  by  and 
get  off  with  all  his  munitions,  and  lived  to  fight 
another  day ;  and  I  do  not  record  this  as  casting 


414  A   WEEK 

any  suspicion  on  his  honor  and  real  bravery  in 
che  field. 

Wandering  on  through  notches  which  the 
streams  had  made,  by  the  side  and  over  the 
brows  of  hoar  hills  and  mountains,  across  the 
stumpy,  rocky,  forested,  and  bepastured  coun 
try,  we  at  length  crossed  on  prostrate  trees  over 
the  Amonoosuck,  and  breathed  the  free  air  of 
Unappropriated  Land.  Thus,  in  fair  days  as 
well  as  foul,  we  had  traced  up  the  river  to 
which  our  native  stream  is  a  tributary,  until 
from  Merrimack  it  became  the  Pemigewasset 
that  leaped  by  our  side,  and  when  we  had  passed 
its  fountain-head,  the  Wild  Amonoosuck,  whose 
puny  channel  was  crossed  at  a  stride,  guiding 
us  toward  its  distant  source  among  the  moun 
tains,  at  length,  without  its  guidance,  we  were 
enabled  to  reach  the  summit  of  AGIOCOCHOOK. 


" Sweet  day;   so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night, 
For  thou  must  die." 

HERBERT. 

When  we  returned  to  Hooksett,  a  week  after 
ward,  the  melon  man,  in  whose  corn-barn  we 
had  hung  our  tent  and  buffaloes  and  other 
things  to  dry,  was  already  picking  his  hops, 


THURSDAY  415 

with  many  women  and  children  to  help  him. 
We  bought  one  watermelon,  the  largest  in  his 
patch,  to  carry  with  us  for  ballast.  It  was 
gatkan's,  which  he  might  sell  if  he  wished, 
having  been  conveyed  to  him  in  the  green  state, 
and  owned  daily  by  his  eyes.  After  due  con 
sultation  with  "Father,"  the  bargain  was  con 
cluded,  —  we  to  buy  it  at  a  venture  on  the  vine, 
green  or  ripe,  our  risk,  and  pay  "what  the 
gentlemen  pleased."  It  proved  to  be  ripe;  for 
we  had  had  honest  experience  in  selecting  this 
fruit. 

Finding  our  boat  safe  in  its  harbor,  under 
Uncannunuc  Mountain,  with  a  fair  wind  and 
the  current  in  our  favor,  we  commenced  our  re 
turn  voyage  at  noon,  sitting  at  our  ease  and 
conversing,  or  in  silence  watching  for  the  last 
trace  of  each  reach  in  the  river  as  a  bend  con 
cealed  it  from  our  view.  As  the  season  was 
further  advanced,  the  wind  now  blew  steadily 
from  the  north,  and  with  our  sail  set  we  could 
occasionally  lie  on  our  oars  without  loss  of  time. 
The  lumbermen  throwing  down  wood  from  the 
top  of  the  high  bank,  thirty  or  forty  feet  above 
the  water,  that  it  might  be  sent  downstream, 
paused  in  their  work  to  watch  our  retreating 
sail.  By  this  time,  indeed,  we  were  well  known 
to  the  boatmen,  and  were  hailed  as  the  Revenue 
Cutter  of  the  stream.  As  we  sailed  rapidly 


416  A  WEEK 

down  the  river,  shut  in  between  two  mounds  of 
earth,  the  sounds  of  this  timber  rolled  down  the 
bank  enhanced  the  silence  and  vastness  of  the 
noon,  and  we  fancied  that  only  the  primeval 
echoes  were  awakened.  The  vision  of  a  distant 
scow  just  heaving  in  sight  round  a  headland  alsc 
increased  by  contrast  the  solitude. 

Through  the  din  and  desultoriness  of  noon, 
even  in  the  most  Oriental  city,  is  seen  the  fresh 
and  primitive  and  savage  nature,  in  which  Scy 
thians  and  Ethiopians  and  Indians  dwell. 
What  is  echo,  what  are  light  and  shade,  day 
and  night,  ocean  and  stars,  earthquake  and 
eclipse,  there?  The  works  of  man  are  every 
where  swallowed  up  in  the  immensity  of  nature. 
The  ^Egean  Sea  is  but  Lake  Huron  still  to  the 
Indian.  Also  there  is  all  the  refinement  of 
civilized  life  in  the  woods  under  a  sylvan  garb. 
The  wildest  scenes  have  an  air  of  domesticity 
and  homeliness  even  to  the  citizen,  and  when 
the  flicker's  cackle  is  heard  in  the  clearing,  he 
is  reminded  that  civilization  has  wrought  but 
little  change  there.  Science  is  welcome  to  the 
deepest  recesses  of  the  forest,  for  there  too  na 
ture  obeys  the  same  old  civil  laws.  The  little 
red  bug  on  the  stump  of  a  pine,  —  for  it  the 
wind  shifts  and  the  sun  breaks  through  the 
clouds.  In  the  wildest  nature,  there  is  not  only 
the  material  of  the  most  cultivated  life,  and  a 


THURSDA  Y  417 

sort  of  anticipation  of  the  last  result,  but  a 
greater  refinement  already  than  is  ever  attained 
by  man.  There  is  papyrus  by  the  river-side, 
and  rushes  for  light,  and  the  goose  only  flies 
overhead,  ages  before  the  studious  are  born  or 
letters  invented,  and  that  literature  which  the 
former  suggest,  and  even  from  the  first  have 
rudely  served,  it  may  be  man  does  not  yet  use 
them  to  express.  Nature  is  prepared  to  wel 
come  into  her  scenery  the  finest  work  of  human 
art,  for  she  is  herself  an  art  so  cunning  that  the 
artist  never  appears  in  his  work. 

Art  is  not  tame,  and  Nature  is  not  wild,  in 
the  ordinary  sense.  A  perfect  work  of  man's 
art  would  also  be  wild  or  natural  in  a  good 
sense.  Man  tames  Nature  only  that  he  may  at 
last  make  her  more  free  even  than  he  found  her, 
though  he  may  never  yet  have  succeeded. 

With  this  propitious  breeze,  and  the  help  of 
our  oars,  we  soon  reached  the  Falls  of  Amos- 
keag,  and  the  mouth  of  the  Piscataquoag,  and 
recognized,  as  we  swept  rapidly  by,  many  a  fair 
bank  and  islet  on  which  our  eyes  had  rested  in 
the  upward  passage.  Our  boat  was  like  that 
which  Chaucer  describes  in  his  Dream,  in  which 
the  knight  took  his  departure  from  the  island,— 

"To  journey  for  his  marriage, 
And  return  with  such  an  host, 


418  A    WEEK 

That  wedded  might  be  least  and  most.  .  •  • 

Which  barge  was  as  a  man's  thought, 

After  his  pleasure  to  him  brought, 

The  queene  herself  accustomed  aye 

In  the  same  barge  to  play, 

It  needed  neither  mast  lie  rother, 

I  have  not  heard  of  such  another, 

No  master  for  the  governance, 

Hie  sayled  by  thought  and  pleasaunce, 

Without  labor  east  and  west, 

All  was  one,  calme  or  tempest." 

So  we  sailed  this  afternoon,  thinking  of  the  say 
ing  of  Pythagoras,  though  we  had  no  peculiar 
right  to  remember  it,  "It  is  beautiful  when 
prosperity  is  present  with  intellect,  and  when 
sailing  as  it  were  with  a  prosperous  wind,  ac 
tions  are  performed  looking  to  virtue ;  just  as  a 
pilot  looks  to  the  motions  of  the  stars."  All 
the  world  reposes  in  beauty  to  him  who  pre 
serves  equipoise  in  his  life,  and  moves  serenely 
on  his  path  without  secret  violence;  as  he  who 
sails  down  a  stream,  he  has  only  to  steer,  keep 
ing  his  bark  in  the  middle,  and  carry  it  round 
the  falls.  The  ripples  curled  away  in  our  wake, 
like  ringlets  from  the  head  of  a  child,  while  we 
steadily  held  on  our  course,  and  under  the  bows 
we  watched 

"  The  swaying  soft, 

Made  by  the  delicate  wave  parted  in  front, 
As  through  the  gentle  element  we  move 
Like  shadows  gliding  through  untroubled  realms." 

The  forms  of  beauty  fall  naturally  around  the 


THURSDAY  419 

path  of  him  who  is  in  the  performance  of  his 
proper  work;  as  the  curled  shavings  drop  from 
the  plane,  and  borings  cluster  round  the  auger. 
Undulation  is  the  gentlest  and  most  ideal  of  mo 
tions,  produced  by  one  fluid  falling  on  another. 
Rippling  is  a  more  graceful  flight.  From  a 
hill-top  you  may  detect  in  it  the  wings  of  birds 
endlessly  repeated.  The  two  waving  lines 
which  represent  the  flight  of  birds  appear  to 
have  been  copied  from  the  ripple. 

The  trees  made  an  admirable  fence  to  the 
landscape,  skirting  the  horizon  on  every  side. 
The  single  trees  and  the  groves  left  standing  on 
the  interval  appeared  naturally  disposed,  though 
the  farmer  had  consulted  only  his  convenience, 
for  he  too  falls  into  the  scheme  of  Nature.  Art 
can  never  match  the  luxury  and  superfluity  of 
Nature.  In  the  former  all  is  seen;  it  cannot 
afford  concealed  wealth,  and  is  niggardly  iu 
comparison ;  but  Nature,  even  when  she  is  scant 
and  thin  outwardly,  satisfies  us  still  by  the  as 
surance  of  a  certain  generosity  at  the  roots.  In 
swamps,  where  there  is  only  here  and  there  an 
evergreen  tree  amid  the  quaking  moss  and  cran 
berry  beds,  the  bareness  does  not  suggest  pov 
erty.  The  single-spruce,  which  I  had  hardly 
noticed  in  gardens,  attracts  me  in  such  places, 
and  now  first  I  understand  why  men  try  to  make 
them  grow  about  their  houses.  But  though 


420  A  WEEK 

there  may  be  very  perfect  specimens  in  front- 
yard  plots,  their  beauty  is  for  the  most  part  in 
effectual  there,  for  there  is  no  such  assurance 
of  kindred  wealth  beneath  and  around  them,  to 
make  them  show  to  advantage.  As  we  have 
said,  Nature  is  a  greater  and  more  perfect  art, 
the  art  of  God;  though,  referred  to  herself,  she 
is  genius ;  and  there  is  a  similarity  between  her 
operations  and  man's  art  even  in  the  details  and 
trifles.  When  the  overhanging  pine  drops  into 
the  water,  by  the  sun  and  water,  and  the  wind 
rubbing  it  against  the  shore,  its  boughs  are  worn 
into  fantastic  shapes,  and  white  and  smooth,  as 
if  turned  in  a  lathe.  Man's  art  has  wisely  imi 
tated  those  forms  into  which  all  matter  is  most 
inclined  to  run,  as  foliage  and  fruit.  A  ham 
mock  swung  in  a  grove  assumes  the  exact  form 
of  a  canoe,  broader  or  narrower,  and  higher 
or  lower  at  the  ends,  as  more  or  fewer  persons 
are  in  it,  and  it  rolls  in  the  air  with  the  motion 
of  the  body,  like  a  canoe  in  the  water.  Our 
art  leaves  its  shavings  and  its  dust  about;  her 
art  exhibits  itself  even  in  the  shavings  and  the 
dust  which  we  make.  She  has  perfected  herself 
by  an  eternity  of  practice.  The  world  is  well 
kept ;  no  rubbish  accumulates ;  the  morning  air 
is  clear  even  at  this  day,  and  no  dust  has  settled 
on  the  grass.  Behold  how  the  evening  now 
steals  over  the  fields,  the  shadows  of  the  trees 


THURSDAY  421 

creeping  farther  and  farther  into  the  meadow, 
and  erelong  the  stars  will  come  to  bathe  in  these 
retired  waters.  Her  undertakings  are  secure 
and  never  fail.  If  I  were  awakened  from  a 
deep  sleep,  I  should  know  which  side  of  the 
meridian  the  sun  might  be  by  the  aspect  of  na 
ture,  and  by  the  chirp  of  the  crickets,  and  yet 
no  painter  can  paint  this  difference.  The  land 
scape  contains  a  thousand  dials  which  indicate 
the  natural  divisions  of  time,  the  shadows  of  a 
thousand  styles  point  to  the  hour. 

"Not  only  o'er  the  dial's  face, 

This  silent  phantom  day  by  day, 
With  slow,  unseen,  unceasing-  pace 

Steals  moments,  months,  and  years  away  ; 
From  hoary  rock  and  aged  tree, 

From  proud  Palmyra's  mouldering1  walls, 
From  Teneriffe,  towering  o'er  the  sea, 

From  every  blade  of  grass  it  falls." 

It  is  almost  the  only  game  which  the  trees  play 
at,  this  tit-for-tat,  now  this  side  in  the  sun, 
now  that,  the  drama  of  the  day.  In  deep  ra 
vines  under  the  eastern  sides  of  cliffs,  Night  for- 
wardly  plants  her  foot  even  at  noonday,  and  as 
Day  retreats  she  steps  into  his  trenches,  skulk 
ing  from  tree  to  tree,  from  fence  to  fence,  until 
at  last  she  sits  in  his  citadel  and  draws  out  her 
forces  into  the  plain.  It  may  be  that  the  fore 
noon  is  brighter  than  the  afternoon,  not  only 
because  of  the  greater  transparency  of  its  at- 


422  A  WEEK 

mosphere,  but  because  we  naturally  loolnnost 
into  thejrrflflt,  n,pj  forward  .into  the^jjay^and  so 
in  the  forenoon  see  the  sunny  side  of  things,  but 
in  the  afternoon  the  shadow  of  every  tree. 

The  afternoon  is  now  far  advanced,  and  a 
fresh  and  leisurely  wind  is  blowing  over  the 
river,  making  long  reaches  of  bright  ripples. 
The  river  has  done  its  stint,  and  appears  not  to 
flow,  but  lie  at  its  length  reflecting  the  light, 
and  the  haze  over  the  woods  is  like  the  inaudible 
panting,  or  rather  the  gentle  perspiration  of 
resting  nature,  rising  from  a  myriad  of  pores 
into  the  attenuated  atmosphere. 

On  the  thirty-first  day  of  March,  one  hundred 
and  forty-two  years  before  this,  probably  about 
this  time  in  the  afternoon,  there  were  hurriedly 
paddling  down  this  part  of  the  river,  between 
the  pine  woods  which  then  fringed  these  banks, 
two  white  women  and  a  boy,  who  had  left  an 
island  at  the  mouth  of  the  Contoocook  before 
daybreak.  They  were  slightly  clad  for  the 
season,  in  the  English  fashion,  and  handled 
their  paddles  unskillfully,  but  with  nervous  en 
ergy  and  determination,  and  at  the  bottom  of 
their  canoe  lay  the  still  bleeding  scalps  of  ten 
of  the  aborigines.  They  were  Hannah  Dustan, 
and  her  nurse,  Mary  Neff,  both  of  Haverhill, 
eighteen  miles  from  the  mouth  of  this  river,  and 


THURSDAY  423 

an  English  boy,  named  Samuel  Lennardson, 
escaping  from  captivity  among  the  Indians. 
On  the  15th  of  March  previous,  Hannah  Dus- 
tan  had  been  compelled  to  rise  from  childbed, 
and  half  dressed,  with  one  foot  bare,  accom 
panied  by  her  nurse,  commence  an  uncertain 
march,  in  still  inclement  weather,  through  the 
snow  and  the  wilderness.  She  had  seen  her 
seven  elder  children  flee  with  their  father,  but 
knew  not  of  their  fate.  She  had  seen  her  in 
fant's  brains  dashed  out  against  an  apple-tree, 
and  had  left  her  own  and  her  neighbors'  dwell 
ings  in  ashes.  When  she  reached  the  wigwam 
of  her  captor,  situated  on  an  island  in  the  Mer- 
rimack,  more  than  twenty  miles  above  where 
we  now  are,  she  had  been  told  that  she  and  her 
nurse  were  soon  to  be  taken  to  a  distant  Indian 
settlement,  and  there  made  to  run  the  gauntlet 
naked.  The  family  of  this  Indian  consisted  of 
two  men,  three  women,  and  seven  children, 
besides  an  English  boy,  whom  she  found  a 
prisoner  among  them.  Having  determined  to 
attempt  her  escape,  she  instructed  the  boy  to 
inquire  of  one  of  the  men,  how  he  should  dis 
patch  an  enemy  in  the  quickest  manner,  and 
take  his  scalp.  "  Strike  'em  there,"  said  he, 
placing  his  finger  on  his  temple,  and  he  also 
showed  him  how  to  take  off  the  scalp.  On  the 
morning  of  the  31st  she  arose  before  daybreak, 


424  A   WEEK 

and  awoke  her  nurse  and  the  boy,  and  taking 
the  Indians'  tomahawks,  they  killed  them  all  in 
their  sleep,  excepting  one  favorite  boy,  and  one 
squaw  who  fled  wounded  with  him  to  the  woods. 
The  English  boy  struck  the  Indian  who  had 
given  him  the  information,  on  the  temple,  as  he 
had  been  directed.  They  then  collected  all  the 
provision  they  could  find,  and  took  their  mas 
ter's  tomahawk  and  gun,  and  scuttling  all  the 
canoes  but  one,  commenced  their  flight  to  Ha- 
verhill,  distant  about  sixty  miles  by  the  river. 
But  after  having  proceeded  a  short  distance, 
fearing  that  her  story  would  not  be  believed  if 
she  should  escape  to  tell  it,  they  returned  to  the 
silent  wigwam,  and  taking  off  the  scalps  of  the 
dead,  put  them  into  a  bag  as  proofs  of  what 
they  had  done,  and  then,  retracing  their  steps 
to  the  shore  in  the  twilight,  recommenced  their 
voyage. 

Early  this  morning  this  deed  was  performed, 
and  now,  perchance,  these  tired  women  and  this 
boy,  their  clothes  stained  with  blood,  and  their 
minds  racked  with  alternate  resolution  and  fear, 
are  making  a  hasty  meal  of  parched  corn  and 
moose-meat,  while  their  canoe  glides  under  these 
pine  roots  whose  stumps  are  still  standing  on 
the  bank.  They  are  thinking  of  the  dead  whom 
they  have  left  behind  on  that  solitary  isle  far  up 
the  stream,  and  of  the  relentless  living  warriors 


THURSDAY  425 

who  are  in  pursuit.  Every  withered  leaf  which 
the  winter  has  left  seems  to  know  their  story, 
and  in  its  rustling  to  repeat  it  and  betray  them. 
An  Indian  lurks  behind  every  rock  and  pine, 
and  their  nerves  cannot  bear  the  tapping  of  a 
woodpecker.  Or  they  forget  their  own  dangers 
and  their  deeds  in  conjecturing  the  fate  of  their 
kindred,  and  whether,  if  they  escape  the  Indi 
ans,  they  shall  find  the  former  still  alive.  They 
do  not  stop  to  cook  their  meals  upon  the  bank, 
nor  land,  except  to  carry  their  canoe  about  the 
falls.  The  stolen  birch  forgets  its  master  and 
does  them  good  service,  and  the  swollen  current 
bears  them  swiftly  along  with  little  need  of  the 
paddle,  except  to  steer  and  keep  them  warm  by 
exercise.  For  ice  is  floating  in  the  river;  the 
spring  is  opening;  the  musk-rat  and  the  beaver 
are  driven  out  of  their  holes  by  the  flood;  deer 
gaze  at  them  from  the  bank ;  a  few  faint-sing 
ing  forest  birds,  perchance,  fly  across  the  river 
to  the  northernmost  shore;  the  fish-hawk  sails 
and  screams  overhead,  and  geese  fly  over  with 
a  startling  clangor;  but  they  do  not  observe 
these  things,  or  they  speedily  forget  them. 
They  do  not  smile  or  chat  all  day.  Sometimes 
they  pass  an  Indian  grave  surrounded  by  its 
paling  on  the  bank,  or  the  frame  of  a  wigwam, 
with  a  few  coals  left  behind,  or  the  withered 
stalks  still  rustling  in  the  Indian's  solitary  corn- 


426  A  WEEK 

field  on  the  interval.  The  birch  stripped  of  its 
bark,  or  the  charred  stump  where  a  tree  has 
been  burned  down  to  be  made  into  a  canoe, 
these  are  the  only  traces  of  man,  —  a  fabulous 
wild  man  to  us.  On  either  side,  the  primeval 
forest  stretches  away  uninterrupted  to  Canada, 
or  to  the  "South  Sea;  "  to  the  white  man  a 
drear  and  howling  wilderness,  but  to  the  Indian 
a  home,  adapted  to  his  nature,  and  cheerful  as 
the  smile  of  the  Great  Spirit. 

While  we  loiter  here  this  autumn  evening, 
looking  for  a  spot  retired  enough,  where  we 
shall  quietly  rest  to-night,  they  thus,  in  that 
chilly  March  evening,  one  hundred  and  forty- 
two  years  before  us,  with  wind  and  current 
favoring,  have  already  glided  out  of  sight,  not 
to  camp,  as  we  shall,  at  night,  but  while  two 
sleep  one  will  manage  the  canoe,  and  the  swift 
stream  bear  them  onward  to  the  settlements,  it 
may  be,  even  to  old  John  Love  well's  house  on 
Salmon  Brook  to-night. 

According  to  the  historian,  they  escaped  as 
by  a  miracle  all  roving  bands  of  Indians,  and 
reached  their  homes  in  safety,  with  their  tro 
phies,  for  which  the  General  Court  paid  them 
fifty  pounds.  The  family  of  Hannah  Dustan 
all  assembled  alive  once  more,  except  the  infant 
whose  brains  were  dashed  out  against  the  apple- 
tree,  and  there  have  been  many  who  in  later 


THURSDAY  427 

times  have  lived  to  say  that  they  had  eaten  of 
the  fruit  of  that  apple-tree. 

This  seems  a  long  while  ago,  and  yet  it  hap 
pened  since  Milton  wrote  his  Paradise  Lost. 
But  its  antiquity  is  not  the  less  great  for  that, 
for  we  do  not  regulate  our  historical  time  by 
the  English  standard,  nor  did  the  English  by 
the  Roman,  nor  the  Roman  by  the  Greek. 
"We  must  look  a  long  way  back,"  says  Ra 
leigh,  "to  find  the  Romans  giving  laws  to  na 
tions,  and  their  consuls  bringing  kings  and 
princes  bound  in  chains  to  Rome  in  triumph ;  to 
see  men  go  to  Greece  for  wisdom,  or  Ophir  for 
gold;  when  now  nothing  remains  but  a  poor 
paper  remembrance  of  their  former  condition." 
And  yet,  in  one  sense,  not  so  far  back  as  to 
find  the  Penacooks  and  Pawtuckets  using  bows 
and  arrows  and  hatchets  of  stone,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Merrimack.  From  this  September  after 
noon,  and  from  between  these  now  cultivated 
shores,  those  times  seemed  more  remote  than 
the  dark  ages.  On  beholding  an  old  picture  of 
Concord,  as  it  appeared  but  seventy-five  years 
ago,  with  a  fair  open  prospect  and  a  light  on 
trees  and  river,  as  if  it  were  broad  noon,  I  find 
that  I  had  not  thought  the  sun  shone  in  those 
days,  or  that  men  lived  in  broad  daylight  then. 
Still  less  do  we  imagine  the  sun  shining  on  hill 


428  A  WEEK 

and  valley  during  Philip's  war,  on  the  war-path 
of  Church  or  Philip,  or  later  of  Lovewell  or 
Paugus,  with  serene  summer  weather,  but  they 
must  have  lived  and  fought  in  a  dim  twilight  or 
night. 

The  age  of  the  world  is  great  enough  for  our 
imaginations,  even  according  to  the  Mosaic  ac 
count,  without  borrowing  any  years  from  the 
geologist.  From  Adam  and  Eve  at  one  leap 
sheer  down  to  the  deluge,  and  then  through  the 
ancient  monarchies,  through  Babylon  and 
Thebes,  Brahma  and  Abraham,  to  Greece  and 
the  Argonauts;  whence  we  might  start  again 
with  Orpheus  and  the  Trojan  war,  the  Pyra 
mids  and  the  Olympic  games,  and  Homer  and 
Athens,  for  our  stages;  and  after  a  breathing 
space  at  the  building  of  Home,  continue  our 
journey  down  through  Odin  and  Christ  to  — 
America.  It  is  a  wearisome  while.  And  yet 
the  lives  of  but  sixty  old  women,  such  as  live 
under  the  hill,  say  of  a  century  each,  strung 
together,  are  sufficient  to  reach  over  the  whole 
ground.  Taking  hold  of  hands  they  would 
span  the  interval  from  Eve  to  my  own  mother. 
A  respectable  tea-party  merely,  —  whose  gossip 
would  be  Universal  History.  The  fourth  old 
woman  from  myself  suckled  Columbus,  —  the 
ninth  was  nurse  to  the  Norman  Conqueror,  — 
the  nineteenth  was  the  Virgin  Mary,  —  the 


THURSDAY  429 

twenty -fourth  the  Cumaean  Sibyl,  —  the  thirti 
eth  was  at  the  Trojan  war  and  Helen  her  name, 
—  the  thirty -eighth  was  Queen  Semiramis,  — 
the  sixtieth  was  Eve,  the  mother  of  mankind. 
So  much  for  the 

"  Old  woman  that  lives  under  the  hill, 
And  if  she  's  not  gone  she  lives  there  still." 

It  will  not  take  a  very  great-granddaughter  of 
hers  to  be  in  at  the  death  of  Time. 

We  can  never  safely  exceed  the  actual  facts 
in  our  narratives.  Of  pure  invention,  such  as 
some  suppose,  there  is  no  instance.  To  write 
a  true  work  of  fiction  even  is  only  to  take  lei 
sure  and  liberty  to  describe  some  things  more 
exactly  as  they  are.  A  true  account  of  the 
actual  is  the  rarest  poetry,  for  common  sense 
always  takes  a  hasty  and  superficial  view. 
Though  I  am  not  much  acquainted  with  the 
works  of  Goethe,  I  should  say  that  it  was  one 
of  his  chief  excellences  as  a  writer,  that  he  was 
satisfied  with  giving  an  exact  description  of 
things  as  they  appeared  to  him,  and  their  effect 
upon  him.  Most  travelers  have  not  self-respect 
enough  to  do  this  simply,  and  make  objects  and 
events  stand  around  them  as  the  centre,  but 
still  imagine  more  favorable  positions  and  re 
lations  than  the  actual  ones,  and  so  we  get  no 
valuable  report  from  them  at  all.  In  his  Ital 
ian  Travels  Goethe  jogs  along  at  a  snail's  pace, 


430  A   WEEK 

but  always  mindful  that  the  earth  is  beneath 
and  the  heavens  are  above  him.  His  Italy  is 
not  merely  the  fatherland  of  lazzaroni  and  vir 
tuosi,  and  scene  of  splendid  ruins,  but  a  solid 
turf-clad  soil,  daily  shined  on  by  the  sun,  and 
nightly  by  the  moon.  Even  the  few  showers 
are  faithfully  recorded.  He  speaks  as  an  un 
concerned  spectator,  whose  object  is  faithfully 
to  describe  what  he  sees,  and  that,  for  the  most 
part,  in  the  order  in  which  he  sees  it.  Even 
his  reflections  do  not  interfere  with  his  descrip 
tions.  In  one  place  he  speaks  of  himself  as 
giving  so  glowing  and  truthful  a  description  of 
an  old  tower  to  the  peasants  who  had  gathered 
around  him,  that  they  who  had  been  born  and 
brought  up  in  the  neighborhood  must  needs  look 
over  their  shoulders,  "that,"  to  use  his  own 
words,  "they  might  behold  with  their  eyes, 
what  I  had  praised  to  their  ears,"  —  "and  I 
added  nothing,  not  even  the  ivy  which  for  cen 
turies  had  decorated  the  walls."  It  would  thus 
be  possible  for  inferior  minds  to  produce  inval 
uable  books,  if  this  very  moderation  were  not 
the  evidence  of  superiority ;  for  the  wise  are  not 
jBoinuch^wiser  than  others  as  respecters  of  tEeir 
own  wisdom.  Some,  poor  in  spirit,  record 
plaintively  only  what  has  happened  to  them: 
but  others  how  they  have  happened  to  the  uni 
verse,  and  the  judgment  which  they  have 


THURSDAY  431 

awarded  to  circumstances.  Above  all,  he  pos 
sessed  a  hearty  good-will  to  all  men,  and  never 
wrote  a  cross  or  even  careless  word.  On  one 
occasion  the  post-boy  sniveling,  "  Signor,  per- 
donate,  questa  e  la  mia  patria,"  he  confesses 
that  "to  me  poor  northerner  came  something 
tear-like  into  the  eyes." 

Goethe's  whole  education  and  life  were  those 
of  the  artist.  He  lacks  the  unconsciousness  of 
the  poet.  In  his  autobiography  he  describes 
accurately  the  life  of  the  author  of  Wilhelm 
Meister.  For  as  there  is  in  that  book,  mingled 
with  a  rare  and  serene  wisdom,  a  certain  petti 
ness  or  exaggeration  of  trifles,  wisdom  applied 
to  produce  a  constrained  and  partial  and  merely 
well-bred  man,  —  a  magnifying  of  the  theatre 
till  life  itself  is  turned  into  a  stage,  for  which 
it  is  our  duty  to  study  our  parts  well,  and  con 
duct  with  propriety  and  precision,  —  so  in  the 
autobiography,  the  fault  of  his  education  is,  so 
to  speak,  its  merely  artistic  completeness.  Na 
ture  is  hindered,  though  she  prevails  at  last  in 
making  an  unusually  catholic  impression  on  the 
boy.  It  is  the  life  of  a  city  boy,  whose  toys  are 
pictures  and  works  of  art,  whose  wonders  are 
the  theatre  and  kingly  processions  and  crown 
ings.  As  the  youth  studied  minutely  the  order 
and  the  degrees  in  the  imperial  procession,  and 
suffered  none  of  its  effect  to  be  lost  on  him,  so 


432  A   WEEK 

the  man  aimed  to  secure  a  rank  in  society  which 
would  satisfy  his  notion  of  fitness  and  respecta 
bility.  He  was  defrauded  of  much  which  the 
savage  boy  enjoys.  Indeed,  he  himself  has  oc 
casion  to  say  in  this  very  autobiography,  when 
at  last  he  escapes  into  the  woods  without  the 
gates:  "Thus  much  is  certain,  that  only  the 
undefinable,  wide-expanding  feelings  of  youth 
and  of  uncultivated  nations  are  adapted  to  the 
sublime,  which,  whenever  it  may  be  excited  in 
us  through  external  objects,  since  it  is  either 
formless,  or  else  moulded  into  forms  which  are 
incomprehensible,  must  surround  us  with  a 
grandeur  which  we  find  above  our  reach."  He 
further  says  of  himself:  "I  had  lived  among 
painters  from  my  childhood,  and  had  accus 
tomed  myself  to  look  at  objects,  as  they  did, 
with  reference  to  art."  And  this  was  his  prac 
tice  to  the  last.  He  was  even  too  well-bred  to 
be  thoroughly  bred.  He  says  that  he  had  had 
no  intercourse  with  the  lowest  class  of  his  towns- 
boys.  The  child  should  have  the  advantage  of 
ignorance  as  well  as  of  knowledge,  and  is  fortu 
nate  if  he  gets  his  share  of  neglect  and  expo 
sure. 

"  The  laws  of  Nature  break  the  rules  of  Art." 

The  Man  of  Genius  may  at  the  same  time  be, 
indeed  is  commonly,  an  Artist,  but  the  two  are 
not  to  be  confounded.  The  Man  of  Genius, 


THURSDAY  433 

referred  to  mankind,  is  an  originator,  an  in 
spired  or  demonic  man,  who  produces  a  per 
fect  work  in  obedience  to  laws  yet  unexplored. 
The  Artist  is  he  who  detects  and  applies  the 
law  from  observation  of  the  works  of  Genius, 
whether  of  man  or  nature.  The  Artisan  is  he 
who  merely  applies  the  rules  which  others  have 
detected.  There  has  been  no  man  of  pure  Gen 
ius  ;  as  there  has  been  none  wholly  destitute  of 
Genius. 

Poetry  is  the  mysticism  of  mankind. 

The  expressions  of  the  poet  cannot  be  ana 
lyzed;  his  sentence  is  one  word,  whose  syllables 
are  words.  There  are  indeed  no  words  quite 
worthy  to  be  set  to  his  music.  But  what  mat 
ter  if  we  do  not  hear  the  words  always,  if  we 
hear  the  music? 

Much  verse  fails  of  being  poetry  because  it 
was  not  written  exactly  at  the  right  crisis, 
though  it  may  have  been  inconceivably  near  to 
it.  It  is  only  by  a  miracle  that  poetry  is  written 
at  all.  It  is  not  recoverable  thought,  but  a  hue 
caught  from  a  vaster  receding  thought. 

A  poem  is  one  undivided,  unimpeded  expres 
sion  fallen  ripe  into  literature,  and  it  is  undi- 
videdly  and  unimpededly  received  by  those  for 
whom  it  was  matured. 

If  you  can  speak  what  you  will  never  hear,  if 
you  can  write  what  you  will  never  read,  you 
have  done  rare  things. 


434  A   WEEK 

The  work  we  choose  should  be  our  own, 
God  lets  alone. 

The  unconsciousness  of  man  is  the  conscious 
ness  of  God. 

Deep  are  the  foundations  of  sincerity.  Even 
stone  walls  have  their  foundation  below  the 
frost. 

What  is  produced  by  a  free  stroke  charms  us, 
like  the  forms  of  lichens  and  leaves.  There  is 
a  certain  perfection  in  accident  which  we  never 
consciously  attain.  Draw  a  blunt  quill  filled 
with  ink  over  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  fold  the 
paper  before  the  ink  is  dry,  transversely  to  this 
line,  and  a  delicately  shaded  and  regular  figure 
will  be  produced,  in  some  respects  more  pleas 
ing  than  an  elaborate  drawing. 

The  talent  of  composition  is  very  dangerous, 
—  the  striking  out  the  heart  of  life  at  a  blow, 
as  the  Indian  takes  off  a  scalp.  I  feel  as  if 
my  life  had  grown  more  outward  when  I  can  ex 
press  it. 

On  his  journey  from  Brenner  to  Verona, 
Goethe  writes:  "The  Tees  flows  now  more 
gently,  and  makes  in  many  places  broad  sands. 
On  the  land,  near  to  the  water,  upon  the  hill 
sides,  everything  is  so  closely  planted  one  to 
another,  that  you  think  they  must  choke  one 
another,  —  vineyards,  maize,  mulberry  -  trees, 


THURSDAY  435 

apples,  pears,  quinces,  and  nuts.  The  dwarf 
elder  throws  itself  vigorously  over  the  walls. 
Ivy  grows  with  strong  stems  up  the  rocks,  and 
spreads  itself  wide  over  them,  the  lizard  glides 
through  the  intervals,  and  everything  that  wan 
ders  to  and  fro  reminds  one  of  the  loveliest  pic 
tures  of  art.  The  women's  tufts  of  hair  bound 
up,  the  men's  bare  breasts  and  light  jackets, 
the  excellent  oxen  which  they  drive  home  from 
market,  the  little  asses  with  their  loads,  — 
everything  forms  a  living,  animated  Heinrich 
Roos.  And  now  that  it  is  evening,  in  the  mild 
air  a  few  clouds  rest  upon  the  mountains,  in  the 
heavens  more  stand  still  than  move,  and  imme 
diately  after  sunset  the  chirping  of  crickets  be 
gins  to  grow  more  loud ;  then  one  feels  for  once 
at  home  in  the  world,  and  not  as  concealed  or 
in  exile.  I  am  contented  as  though  I  had  been 
born  and  brought  up  here,  and  were  now  re 
turning  from  a  Greenland  or  whaling  voyage. 
Even  the  dust  of  my  Fatherland,  which  is  often 
whirled  about  the  wagon,  and  which  for  so  long 
a  time  I  had  not  seen,  is  greeted.  The  clock- 
and-bell  jingling  of  the  crickets  is  altogether 
lovely,  penetrating,  and  agreeable.  It  sounds 
bravely  when  roguish  boys  whistle  in  emulation 
of  a  field  of  such  songstresses.  One  fancies 
that  they  really  enhance  one  another.  Also  the 
evening  is  perfectly  mild  as  the  day. 


436  A   WEEK 

"If  one  who  dwelt  in  the  south,  and  came 
hither  from  the  south,  should  hear  of  my  rap 
ture  hereupon,  he  would  deem  me  very  childish. 
Alas !  what  I  here  express  I  have  long  known 
while  I  suffered  under  an  unpropitious  heaven, 
and  now  may  I  joyful  feel  this  joy  as  an  excep 
tion,  which  we  should  enjoy  everforth  as  an 
eternal  necessity  of  our  nature." 

Thus  we  "sayled  by  thought  and  pleasaunce," 
as  Chaucer  says,  and  all  things  seemed  with  us 
to  flow;  the  shore  itself  and  the  distant  cliffs 
were  dissolved  by  the  undiluted  air.  The  hard 
est  material  seemed  to  obey  the  same  law  with 
the  most  fluid,  and  so  indeed  in  the  long  run  it 
does.  Trees  were  but  rivers  of  sap  and  woody 
fibre,  flowing  from  the  atmosphere,  and  empty 
ing  into  the  earth  by  their  trunks,  as  their  roots 
flowed  upward  to  the  surface.  And  in  the 
heavens  there  were  rivers  of  stars,  and  milky 
ways,  already  beginning  to  gleam  and  ripple 
over  our  heads.  There  were  rivers  of  rock  on 
the  surface  of  the  earth,  and  rivers  of  ore  in  its 
bowels,  and  our  thoughts  flowed  and  circulated, 
and  this  portion  of  time  was  but  the  current 
hour.  Let  us  wander  where  we  will,  the  uni 
verse  is  built  round  about  us,  and  we  are  cen 
tral  still.  If  we  look  into  the  heavens  they  are 
concave,  and  if  we  were  to  look  into  a  gulf  as 


THURSDA  Y  437 

bottomless,  it  would  be  concave  also.  The  sky 
is  curved  downward  to  the  earth  in  the  horizon, 
because  we  stand  on  the  plain.  I  draw  down 
its  skirts.  The  stars  so  low  there  seem  loath  to 
depart,  but  by  a  circuitous  path  to  be  remem 
bering  me,  and  returning  on  their  steps. 

We  had  already  passed  by  broad  daylight  the 
scene  of  our  encampment  at  Coos  Falls,  and  at 
length  we  pitched  our  camp  on  the  west  bank, 
in  the  northern  part  of  Merrimack,  nearly  oppo 
site  to  the  large  island  on  which  we  had  spent 
the  noon  in  our  way  up  the  river. 

There  we  went  to  bed  that  summer  evening, 
on  a  sloping  shelf  in  the  bank,  a  couple  of  rods 
from  our  boat,  which  was  drawn  up  on  the  sand, 
and  just  behind  a  thin  fringe  of  oaks  which  bor 
dered  the  river ;  without  having  disturbed  any 
inhabitants  but  the  spiders  in  the  grass,  which 
came  out  by  the  light  of  our  lamp,  and  crawled 
over  our  buft'aloes.  When  we  looked  out  from 
under  the  tent,  the  trees  were  seen  dimly  through 
the  mist,  and  a  cool  dew  hung  upon  the  grass, 
which  seemed  to  rejoice  in  the  night,  and  with 
the  damp  air  we  inhaled  a  solid  fragrance. 
Having  eaten  our  supper  of  hot  cocoa  and  bread 
and  watermelon,  we  soon  grew  weary  of  con 
versing,  and  writing  in  our  journals,  and,  put 
ting  out  the  lantern  which  hung  from  the  tent- 
pole,  fell  asleep. 


438  A   WEEK 

Unfortunately,  many  things  have  been 
omitted  which  should  have  been  recorded  in  our 
journal;  for  though  we  made  it  a  rule  to  set 
down  all  our  experiences  therein,  yet  such  a  res 
olution  is  very  hard  to  keep,  for  the  important 
experience  rarely  allows  us  to  remember  such 
obligations,  and  so  indifferent  things  get  re 
corded,  while  that  is  frequently  neglected.  It 
is  not  easy  to  write  in  a  journal  what  interests 
us  at  any  time,  because  to  write  it  is  not  what 
interests  us. 

Whenever  we  awoke  in  the  night,  still  eking 
out  our  dreams  with  half -awakened  thoughts,  it 
was  not  till  after  an  interval,  when  the  wind 
breathed  harder  than  usual,  flapping  the  cur 
tains  of  the  tent,  and  causing  its  cords  to  vi 
brate,  that  we  remembered  that  we  lay  on  the 
bank  of  the  Merrimack,  and  not  in  our  chamber 
at  home.  With  our  heads  so  low  in  the  grass, 
we  heard  the  river  whirling  and  sucking,  and 
lapsing  downward,  kissing  the  shore  as  it  went, 
sometimes  rippling  louder  than  usual,  and  again 
its  mighty  current  making  only  a  slight  limpid, 
trickling  sound,  as  if  our  water-pail  had  sprung 
a  leak,  and  the  water  were  flowing  into  the 
grass  by  our  side.  The  wind,  rustling  the  oaks 
and  hazels,  impressed  us  like  a  wakeful  and 
inconsiderate  person  up  at  midnight,  moving 
about,  and  putting  things  to  rights,  occasionally 


THURSDAY  439 

stirring  up  whole  drawers  full  of  leaves  at  a 
puff.  There  seemed  to  be  a  great  haste  and 
preparation  throughout  Nature,  as  for  a  distin 
guished  visitor;  all  her  aisles  had  to  be  swept 
in  the  night  by  a  thousand  handmaidens,  and 
a  thousand  pots  to  be  boiled  for  the  next  day's 
feasting ;  —  such  a  whispering  bustle,  as  if  ten 
thousand  fairies  made  their  fingers  fly,  silently 
sewing  at  the  new  carpet  with  which  the  earth 
was  to  be  clothed,  and  the  new  drapery  which 
was  to  adorn  the  trees.  And  then  the  wind 
would  lull  and  die  away,  and  we  like  it  fell 
asleep  again. 


FRIDAY. 

"  The  Boteman  strayt 

Held  on  his  course  with  stayed  stedfastnesse, 
Ne  ever  shroucke,  ne  ever  sought  to  bayt 
His  tryed  armes  for  toylesome  wearinesse  ; 
But  with  his  oarea  did  sweepe  the  watry  wildernesse." 

SPENBHB. 

"  Summer's  robe  grows 
Dusky,  and  like  an  oft-dyed  garment  shows." 

DONNE. 

As  we  lay  awake  long  before  daybreak,  lis 
tening  to  the  rippling  of  the  river  and  the  rus 
tling  of  the  leaves,  in  suspense  whether  the  wind 
blew  up  or  down  the  stream,  was  favorable  or 
unfavorable  to  our  voyage,  we  already  suspected 
that  there  was  a  change  in  the  weather,  from  a 
freshness  as  of  autumn  in  these  sounds.  The 
wind  in  the  woods  sounded  like  an  incessant 
waterfall  dashing  and  roaring  amid  rocks,  and 
we  even  felt  encouraged  by  the  unusual  activity 
of  the  elements.  He  who  hears  the  rippling  of 
rivers  in  these  degenerate  days  will  not  utterly 
despair.  That  night  was  the  turning-point  in 
the  season.  We  had  gone  to  bed  in  summer, 
and  we  awoke  in  autumn;  for  summer  passes 
into  autumn  in  some  unimaginable  point  of 
^ime,  like  the  turning  of  a  leaf. 


442  A   WEEK 

We  found  our  boat  in  the  dawn  just  as  we 
had  left  it,  and  as  if  waiting  for  us,  there  on  the 
shore,  in  autumn,  all  cool  and  dripping  with 
dew,  and  our  tracks  still  fresh  in  the  wet  sand 
around  it,  the  fairies  all  gone  or  concealed. 
Before  five  o'clock  we  pushed  it  into  the  fog, 
and,  leaping  in,  at  one  shove  were  out  of  sight 
of  the  shores,  and  began  to  sweep  downward 
with  the  rushing  river,  keeping  a  sharp  lookout 
for  rocks.  We  could  see  only  the  yellow  gur 
gling  water,  and  a  solid  bank  of  fog  on  every 
side,  forming  a  small  yard  around  us.  We 
soon  passed  the  mouth  of  the  Souhegan,  and 
the  village  of  Merrimack,  and  as  the  mist  grad 
ually  rolled  away,  and  we  were  relieved  from 
the  trouble  of  watching  for  rocks,  we  saw  by  the 
flitting  clouds,  by  the  first  russet  tinge  on  the 
hills,  by  the  rushing  river,  the  cottages  on 
shore,  and  the  shore  itself,  so  coolly  fresh  and 
shining  with  dew,  and  later  in  the  day,  by  the 
hue  of  the  grape-vine,  the  goldfinch  on  the  wil 
low,  the  flickers  flying  in  flocks,  and  when  we 
passed  near  enough  to  the  shore,  as  we  fancied, 
by  the  faces  of  men,  that  the  Fall  had  com 
menced.  The  cottages  looked  more  snug  and 
comfortable,  and  their  inhabitants  were  seen 
only  for  a  moment,  and  then  went  quietly  in 
and  shut  the  door,  retreating  inward  to  the 
haunts  of  summer. 


FRIDAY  443 

"  And  now  the  cold  autumnal  dews  are  seen 

To  cobweb  ev'ry  green ; 
And  by  the  low-shorn  rowens  doth  appear 
The  fast-declining  year." 

We  heard  the  sigh  of  the  first  autumnal  wind, 
and  even  the  water  had  acquired  a  grayer  hue. 
The  sumach,  grape,  and  maple  were  already 
changed,  and  the  milkweed  had  turned  to  a 
deep,  rich  yellow.  In  all  woods  the  leaves  were 
fast  ripening  for  their  fall ;  for  their  full  veins 
and  lively  gloss  mark  the  ripe  leaf  and  not  the 
sered  one  of  the  poets;  and  we  knew  that  the 
maples,  stripped  of  their  leaves  among  the  ear 
liest,  would  soon  stand  like  a  wreath  of  smoke 
along  the  edge  of  the  meadow.  Already  the 
cattle  were  heard  to  low  wildly  in  the  pastures 
and  along  the  highways,  restlessly  running  to 
and  fro,  as  if  in  apprehension  of  the  wither* 
ing  of  the  grass  and  of  the  approach  of  winter. 
Our  thoughts,  too,  began  to  rustle. 

As  I  pass  along  the  streets  of  our  village  of 
Concord  on  the  day  of  our  annual  Cattle-Show, 
when  it  usually  happens  that  the  leaves  of  the 
elms  and  buttonwoods  begin  first  to  strew  the 
ground  under  the  breath  of  the  October  wind, 
the  lively  spirits  in  their  sap  seem  to  mount  as 
high  as  any  plough-boy's  let  loose  that  day; 
and  they  lead  my  thoughts  away  to  the  rustling 
Woods,  where  the  trees  are  preparing  for  their 


444  A  WEEK 

winter  campaign.  This  autumnal  festival,  when 
men  are  gathered  in  crowds  in  the  streets  as 
regularly  and  by  as  natural  a  law  as  the  leaves 
cluster  and  rustle  by  the  wayside,  is  naturally 
associated  in  my  mind  with  the  fall  of  the  year. 
The  low  of  cattle  in  the  streets  sounds  like  a 
hoarse  symphony  or  running  bass  to  the  rustling 
of  the  leaves.  The  wind  goes  hurrying  down 
the  country,  gleaning  every  loose  straw  that  is 
left  in  the  fields,  while  every  farmer  lad  too 
appears  to  scud  before  it,  —  having  donned  his 
best  pea-jacket  and  pepper-and-salt  waistcoat, 
his  unbent  trousers,  outstanding  rigging  of  duck 
or  kerseymere  or  corduroy,  and  his  furry  hat 
withal, — to  country  fairs  and  cattle-shows,  to 
that  Rome  among  the  villages  where  the  trea 
sures  of  the  year  are  gathered.  All  the  land 
over  they  go  leaping  the  fences  with  their  tough, 
idle  palms,  which  have  never  learned  to  hang 
by  their  sides,  amid  the  low  of  calves  and  the 
bleating  of  sheep,  —  Amos,  Abner,  Elnathan, 
Elbridge,  — 

"  From  steep  pine-bearing  mountains  to  the  plain." 

I  love  these  sons  of  earth,  every  mother's  son  of 
them,  with  their  great  hearty  hearts  rushing 
tumultuously  in  herds  from  spectacle  to  specta 
cle,  as  if  fearful  lest  there  should  not  be  time 
between  sun  and  sun  to  see  them  all,  and  the 
sun  does  not  wait  more  than  in  haying-time. 


FRIDAY  445 

"  Wise  Nature's  darlings,  they  live  in  the  world 
Perplexing  not  themselves  how  it  is  hurled." 

Running  hither  and  thither  with  appetite  for 
the  coarse  pastimes  of  the  day,  now  with  bois 
terous  speed  at  the  heels  of  the  inspired  negro 
from  whose  larynx  the  melodies  of  all  Congo 
and  Guinea  Coast  have  broke  loose  into  our 
streets ;  now  to  see  the  procession  of  a  hundred 
yoke  of  oxen,  all  as  august  and  grave  as  Osiris, 
or  the  droves  of  neat  cattle  and  milch  cows  as 
unspotted  as  Isis  or  lo.  Such  as  had  no  love 
for  Nature 

"  at  all, 
Came  lovers  home  from  this  great  festival." 

They  may  bring  their  fattest  cattle  and  richest 
fruits  to  the  fair,  but  they  are  all  eclipsed  by 
the  show  of  men.  These  are  stirring  autumn 
days,  when  men  sweep  by  in  crowds,  amid  the 
rustle  of  leaves,  like  migrating  finches ;  this  is 
the  true  harvest  of  the  year,  when  the  air  is  but 
the  breath  of  men,  and  the  rustling  of  leaves  is 
as  the  trampling  of  the  crowd.  We  read  nowa 
days  of  the  ancient  festivals,  games,  and  pro 
cessions  of  the  Greeks  and  Etruscans  with  a 
little  incredulity,  or  at  least  with  little  sympa 
thy;  but  how  natural  and  irrepressible  in  every 
people  is  some  hearty  and  palpable  greeting  of 
Nature.  The  Corybantes,  the  Bacchantes,  the 
rude  primitive  tragedians  with  their  procession 


446  A   WEEK 

and  goat-song,  and  the  whole  paraphernalia  of 
the  Panathensea,  which  appear  so  antiquated 
and  peculiar,  have  their  parallel  now.  The 
husbandman  is  always  a  better  Greek  than  the 
scholar  is  prepared  to  appreciate,  and  the  old 
custom  still  survives,  while  antiquarians  and 
scholars  grow  gray  in  commemorating  it.  The 
farmers  crowd  to  the  fair  to-day  in  obedience  to 
the  same  ancient  law,  which  Solon  or  Lycurgus 
did  not  enact,  as  naturally  as  bees  swarm  and 
follow  their  queen. 

It  is  worth  the  while  to  see  the  country's 
people,  how  they  pour  into  the  town,  the  so 
ber  farmer  folk,  now  all  agog,  their  very  shirt 
and  coat  collars  pointing  forward,  —  collars  so 
broad  as  if  they  had  put  their  shirts  on  wrong 
end  upward,  for  the  fashions  always  tend  to 
superfluity,  —  and  with  an  unusual  springiness 
in  their  gait,  jabbering  earnestly  to  one  another. 
The  more  supple  vagabond,  too,  is  sure  to  ap 
pear  on  the  least  rumor  of  such  a  gathering, 
and  the  next  day  to  disappear,  and  go  into  his 
hole  like  the  seventeen-year  locust,  in  an  ever- 
shabby  coat,  though  finer  than  the  farmer's 
best,  yet  never  dressed ;  come  to  see  the  sport, 
and  have  a  hand  in  what  is  going,  —  to  know 
"what 's  the  row,"  if  there  is  any;  to  be  where 
some  men  are  drunk,  some  horses  race,  some 
cockerels  fight;  anxious  to  be  shaking  props 


FRIDAY  447 

under  a  table,  and  above  all  to  see  the  "striped 
pig."  He  especially  is  the  creature  of  the  oc 
casion.  He  empties  both  his  pockets  and  his 
character  into  the  stream,  and  swims  in  such  a 
day.  He  dearly  loves  the  social  slush.  There 
is  no  reserve  of  soberness  in  him. 

I  love  to  see  the  herd  of  men  feeding  heartily 
on  coarse  and  succulent  pleasures,  as  cattle  on 
the  husks  and  stalks  of  vegetables.  Though 
there  are  many  crooked  and  crabbed  specimens 
of  humanity  among  them,  run  all  to  thorn  and 
rind,  and  crowded  out  of  shape  by  adverse  cir 
cumstances,  like  the  third  chestnut  in  the  burr, 
so  that  you  wonder  to  see  some  heads  wear  a 
whole  hat,  yet  fear  not  that  the  race  will  fail 
or  waver  in  them ;  like  the  crabs  which  grow  in 
hedges,  they  furnish  the  stocks  of  sweet  and 
thrifty  fruits  still.  Thus  is  nature  recruited 
from  age  to  age,  while  the  fair  and  palatable 
varieties  die  out,  and  have  their  period.  This 
is  that  mankind.  How  cheap  must  be  the 
material  of  which  so  many  men  are  made. 

The  wind  blew  steadily  down  the  stream,  so 
that  we  kept  our  sails  set,  and  lost  not  a  mo 
ment  of  the  forenoon  by  delays,  but  from  early 
morning  until  noon  were  continually  dropping 
downward.  With  our  hands  on  the  steering- 
paddle,  which  was  thrust  deep  into  the  river,  01 


448  A  WEEK 

bending  to  the  oar,  which  indeed  we  rarely  re 
linquished,  we  felt  each  palpitation  in  the  veins 
of  our  steed,  and  each  impulse  of  the  wings 
which  drew  us  above.  The  current  of  our 
thoughts  made  as  sudden  bends  as  the  river, 
which  was  continually  opening  new  prospects  to 
the  east  or  south,  but  we  are  aware  that  rivers 
flow  most  rapidly  and  shallowest  at  these  points. 
The  steadfast  shores  never  once  turned  aside 
for  us,  but  still  trended  as  they  were  made; 
why  then  should  we  always  turn  aside  for  them  ? 

A  man  cannot  wheedle  nor  overawe  his  Gen 
ius.  It  requires  to  be  conciliated  by  nobler 
conduct  than  the  world  demands  or  can  appre 
ciate.  These  winged  thoughts  are  like  birds, 
and  will  not  be  handled ;  even  hens  will  not  let 
you  touch  them  like  quadrupeds.  Nothing  was 
ever  so  unfamiliar  and  startling  to  a  man  as  his 
own  thoughts. 

To  the  rarest  genius  it  is  the  most  expensive 
to  succumb  and  conform  to  the  ways  of  the 
world.  Genius  is  the  worst  of  lumber,  if  the 
poet  would  float  upon  the  breeze  of  popularity. 
The  bird  of  paradise  is  obliged  constantly  to 
fly  against  the  wind,  lest  its  gay  trappings, 
pressing  close  to  its  body,  impede  its  free 
movements. 

He  is  the  best  sailor  who  can  steer  within  the 
fewest  points  of  the  wind,  and  extract  a  motive 


FRIDAY  449 

power  out  of  the  greatest  obstacles.  Most  be 
gin  to  veer  and  tack  as  soon  as  the  wind  changes 
from  aft,  and  as  within  the  tropics  it  does  not 
blow  from  all  points  of  the  compass,  there  are 
some  harbors  which  they  can  never  reach. 

The  poet  is  no  tender  slip  of  fairy  stock,  who 
requires  peculiar  institutions  and  edicts  for  his 
defense,  but  the  toughest  son  of  earth  and  of 
Heaven,  and  by  his  greater  strength  and  endur 
ance  his  fainting  companions  will  recognize  the 
God  in  him.  It  is  the  worshipers  of  beauty, 
after  all,  who  have  done  the  real  pioneer  work 
of  the  world. 

The  poet  will  prevail  to  be  popular  in  spite 
of  his  faults,  and  in  spite  of  his  beauties  too. 
He  will  hit  the  nail  on  the  head,  and  we  shall 
not  know  the  shape  of  his  hammer.  He  makes 
us  free  of  his  hearth  and  heart,  which  is  greater 
than  to  offer  one  the  freedom  of  a  city. 

Great  men,  unknown  to  their  generation, 
have  their  fame  among  the  great  who  have  pre 
ceded  them,  and  all  true  worldly  fame  subsides 
from  their  high  estimate  beyond  the  stars. 

Orpheus  does  not  hear  the  strains  which  issue 
from  his  lyre,  but  only  those  which  are  breathed 
into  it;  for  the  original  strain  precedes  the 
sound,  by  as  much  as  the  echo  follows  after. 
The  rest  is  the  perquisite  of  the  rocks  and  trees 
and  beasts. 


450  A  WEEK 

When  I  stand  in  a  library  where  is  all  the 
recorded  wit  of  the  world,  but  none  of  the  re 
cording,  a  mere  accumulated,  and  not  truly 
cumulative  treasure,  where  immortal  works 
stand  side  by  side  with  anthologies  which  did 
not  survive  their  month,  and  cobweb  and  mil 
dew  have  already  spread  from  these  to  the  bind 
ing  of  those;  and  happily  I  am  reminded  oi 
what  poetry  is,  —  I  perceive  that  Shakespeare 
and  Milton  did  not  foresee  into  what  company 
they  were  to  fall.  Alas  1  that  so  soon  the  work 
of  a  true  poet  should  be  swept  into  such  a  dust- 
hole! 

The  poet  will  write  for  his  peers  alone.  He 
will  remember  only  that  he  saw  truth  and 
beauty  from  his  position,  and  expect  the  time 
when  a  vision  as  broad  shall  overlook  the  same 
field  as  freely. 

We  are  often  prompted  to  speak  our  thoughts 
to  our  neighbors,  or  the  single  travelers  whom 
we  meet  on  the  road,  but  poetry  is  a  communi 
cation  from  our  home  and  solitude  addressed  to 
all  Intelligence.  It  never  whispers  in  a  private 
ear.  Knowing  this,  we  may  understand  those 
sonnets  said  to  be  addressed  to  particular  per 
sons,  or  "To  a  Mistress's  Eyebrow."  Let  none 
feel  flattered  by  them.  For  poetry  write  love, 
and  it  will  be  equally  true. 

No  doubt  it  is  an  important  difference  be- 


FRIDAY  451 

tween  men  of  genius  or  poets,  and  men  not  of 
genius,  that  the  latter  are  unable  to  grasp 
and  confront  the  thought  which  visits  them. 
But  it  is  because  it  is  too  faint  for  expression, 
or  even  conscious  impression.  What  merely 
quickens  or  retards  the  blood  in  their  veins  and 
fills  their  afternoons  with  pleasure,  they  know 
not  whence,  conveys  a  distinct  assurance  to  the 
finer  organization  of  the  poet. 

We  talk  of  genius  as  if  it  were  a  mere  knack, 
and  the  poet  could  only  express  what  other  men 
conceived.  But  in  comparison  with  his  task, 
the  poet  is  the  least  talented  of  any ;  the  writer 
of  prose  has  more  skill.  See  what  talent  the 
smith  has.  His  material  is  pliant  in  his  hands. 
When  the  poet  is  most  inspired,  is  stimulated 
by  an  aura  which  never  even  colors  the  after 
noons  of  common  men,  then  his  talent  is  all 
gone,  and  he  is  no  longer  a  poet.  The  gods  do 
not  grant  him  any  skill  more  than  another. 
They  never  put  their  gifts  into  his  hands,  but 
they  encompass  and  sustain  him  with  their 
breath. 

To  say  that  God  has  given  a  man  many  and 
great  talents  frequently  means  that  he  has 
brought  his  heavens  down  within  reach  of  his 
hands. 

When  the  poetic  frenzy  seizes  us,  we  run  and 
scratch  with  our  pen,  intent  only  on  worms, 


452  A   WEEK 

calling  our  mates  around  us,  like  the  cock,  and 
delighting  in  the  dust  we  make,  but  do  not  de 
tect  where  the  jewel  lies,  which,  perhaps,  we 
have  in  the  mean  time  cast  to  a  distance,  or 
quite  covered  up  again. 

The  poet's  body  even  is  not  fed  like  other 
men's,  but  he  sometimes  tastes  the  genuine  nec 
tar  and  ambrosia  of  the  gods,  and  lives  a  divine 
life.  By  the  healthful  and  invigorating  thrills 
of  inspiration  his  life  is  preserved  to  a  serene 
old  age. 

Some  poems  are  for  holidays  only.  They  are 
polished  and  sweet,  but  it  is  the  sweetness  of 
sugar,  and  not  such  as  toil  gives  to  sour  bread. 
The  breath  with  which  the  poet  utters  his  verse 
must  be  that  by  which  he  lives. 

Great  prose,  of  equal  elevation,  commands 
our  respect  more  than  great  verse,  since  it  im 
plies  a  more  permanent  and  level  height,  a  life 
more  pervaded  with  the  grandeur  of  the  thought. 
The  poet  often  only  makes  an  irruption,  like  a 
Parthian,  and  is  off  again,  shooting  while  he 
retreats ;  but  tlie^rose  writer  has  conquered  like 
a  Koman,  and  settled  colonies. 

The  true  poem  is  not  that  which  the  public 
read.  There  is  always  a  poem  not  printed  on 
paper,  coincident  with  the  production  of  this, 
stereotyped  in  the  poet's  life.  It  is  what  he 
has  become  through  his  work.  Not  how  is  the 


FRIDAY  453 

idea  expressed  in  stone,  or  on  canvas  or  paper, 
is  the  question,  but  how  far  it  has  obtained  form 
and  expression  in  the  life  of  the  artist.  His 
true  work  will  not  stand  in  any  prince's  gallery. 

My  life  has  been  the  poem  I  would  have  writ, 

But  I  could  not  both  live  and  utter  it. 


THE  POET'S  DELAY. 

In  vain  I  see  the  morning  rise, 
In  vain  observe  the  western  blaze, 

Who  idly  look  to  other  skies, 
Expecting  life  by  other  ways. 

Amidst  such  boundless  wealth  without, 

I  only  still  am  poor  within, 
The  birds  have  sung  their  summer  out, 

But  still  my  spring  does  not  begin. 

Shall  I  then  wait  the  autumn  wind, 

Compelled  to  seek  a  milder  day, 
And  leave  no  curious  nest  behind, 

No  woods  still  echoing  to  my  lay  ? 

This  raw  and  gusty  day,  and  the  creaking  of 
the  oaks  and  pines  on  shore,  reminded  us  of 
more  northern  climes  than  Greece,  and  more 
wintry  seas  than  the  ^Egean. 

The  genuine  remains  of  Ossian,  or  those  an 
cient  poems  which  bear  his  name,  though  of  less 
fame  and  extent,  are,  in  many  respects,  of  the 
same  stamp  with  the  Iliad  itself.  He  asserts 


454  A  WEEK 

the  dignity  of  the  bard  no  less  than  Homer,  and 
in  his  era  we  hear  of  no  other  priest  than  he. 
It  will  not  avail  to  call  him  a  heathen,  because  he 
personifies  the  sun  and  addresses  it;  and  what 
if  his  heroes  did  "worship  the  ghosts  of  their 
fathers,"  their  thin,  airy,  and  unsubstantial 
forms?  we  worsiiip  but  the  ghosts  QJJ)U£ f atherf 
in  more  substantial  forms.  We  cannot  but  re 
spect  the  vigorous  faith  of  those  heathen,  who 
sternly  believed  somewhat,  and  are  inclined  to 
say  to  the  critics,  who  are  offended  by  their  su 
perstitious  rites,  —  Don't  interrupt  these  men's 
prayers.  As  if  we  knew  more  about  human  life 
and  a  God,  than  the  heathen  and  ancients! 
Does  English  theology  contain  the  recent  dis 
coveries  ? 

Ossian  reminds  us  of  the  most  refined  and 
rudest  eras,  of  Homer,  Pindar,  Isaiah,  and  the 
American  Indian.  In  his  poetry,  as  in  Ho 
mer's,  only  the  simplest  and  most  enduring  fea 
tures  of  humanity  are  seen,  such  essential  parts 
of  a  man  as  Stonehenge  exhibits  of  a  temple; 
we  see  the  circles  of  stone,  and  the  upright  shaft 
alone.  The  phenomena  of  life  acquire  almost 
an  unreal  and  gigantic  size  seen  through  his 
mists.  Like  all  older  and  grander  poetry,  it  is 
distinguished  by  the  few  elements  in  the  lives 
of  its  heroes.  They  stand  on  the  heath,  be 
tween  the  stars  and  the  earth,  shrunk  to  the 


FRIDA  Y  455 

bones  and  sinews.  The  earth  is  a  boundless 
plain  for  their  deeds.  They  lead  such  a  simple, 
dry,  and  everlasting  life,  as  hardly  needs  depart 
with  the  flesh,  but  is  transmitted  entire  from 
age  to  age.  There  are  but  few  objects  to  dis 
tract  their  sight,  and  their  life  is  as  unincum- 
bered  as  the  course  of  the  stars  they  gaze  at. 

"  The  wrathful  kings,  on  cairns  apart, 
Look  forward  from  behind  their  shields, 
And  mark  the  wandering  stars, 
That  brilliant  westward  move." 

It  does  not  cost  much  for  these  heroes  to  live ; 
they  do  not  want  much  furniture.  They  are 
such  forms  of  men  only  as  can  be  seen  afar 
through  the  mist,  and  have  no  costume  nor  dia 
lect,  but  for  language  there  is  the  tongue  itself, 
and  for  costume  there  are  always  the  skins  of 
beasts  and  the  bark  of  trees  to  be  had.  They 
live  out  their  years  by  the  vigor  of  their  consti 
tutions.  They  survive  storms  and  the  spears  of 
their  foes,  and  perform  a  few  heroic  deeds,  and 
then 

"  Mounds  will  answer  questions  of  them, 
For  many  future  years." 

Blind  and  infirm,  they  spend  the  remnant  of 
their  days  listening  to  the  lays  of  the  bards,  and 
feeling  the  weapons  which  laid  their  enemies 
low,  and  when  at  length  they  die,  by  a  convul 
sion  of  nature,  the  bard  allows  us  a  short  and 


456  A  WEEK 

misty  glance  into  futurity,  yet  as  clear,  per* 
chance,  as  their  lives  had  been.  When  Mac- 
Roine  was  slain, — 

"  His  soul  departed  to  his  warlike  sires, 
To  follow  misty  forms  ot  boars, 
In  tempestuous  islands  bleak." 

The  hero's  cairn  is  erected,  and  the  bard  sings 
a  brief  significant  strain,  which  will  suffice  for 
epitaph  and  biography. 

"  The  weak  will  find  his  bow  in  the  dwelling, 
The  feeble  will  attempt  to  bend  it." 

Compared  with  this  simple,  fibrous  life,  our 
civilized  history  appears  the  chronicle  of  debil 
ity,  of  fashion,  and  the  arts  of  luxury.  But 
the  civilized  man  misses  no  real  refinement  in 
the  poetry  of  the  rudest  era.  It  reminds  him 
that  civilization  does  but  dress  men.  It  makes 
shoes,  but  it  does  not  toughen  the  soles  of  the 
feet.  It  makes  cloth  of  finer  texture,  but  it 
does  not  touch  the  skin.  Inside  the  civilized 
man  stands  the  savage  still  in  the  place  of  honor. 
We  are  those  blue-eyed,  yellow-haired  Saxons, 
those  slender,  dark-haired  Normans. 

The  profession  of  the  bard  attracted  more  re 
spect  in  those  days  from  the  importance  attached 
to  fame.  It  was  his  province  to  record  the 
deeds  of  heroes.  When  Ossian  hears  the  tradi 
tions  of  inferior  bards,  he  exclaims,  — 

"  I  straightway  seize  the  unfutile  tales, 
AnH  send  them  down  in  faithful  verse.'* 


FRIDAY  457 

His  philosophy  of  life  is  expressed  in  the  open 
ing  of  the  third  Duan  of  Ca-Lodin. 

"  Whence  have  sprung  the  things  that  are  ? 
And  whither  roll  the  passing  years  ? 
Where  does  Time  conceal  its  two  heads, 
In  dense  impenetrable  gloom, 
Its  surface  marked  with  heroes'  deeds  alone  ? 
I  view  the  generations  gone ; 
The  past  appears  but  dim  ; 
As  objects  by  the  moon's  faint  beams, 
Reflected  from  a  distant  lake. 
I  see,  indeed,  the  thunderbolts  of  war, 
But  there  the  unmighty  joyless  dwell, 
All  those  who  send  not  down  their  deeds 
To  far,  succeeding  times." 

The  ignoble  warriors  die  and  are  forgotten; 

"  Strangers  come  to  build  a  tower, 

And  throw  their  ashes  overhand ; 

Some  rusted  swords  appear  in  dust, 

One,  bending  forward,  says, 
*  The  arms  belonged  to  heroes  gone ; 

We  never  heard  their  praise  in  song.'  " 

The  grandeur  of  the  similes  is  another  feature 
which  characterizes  great  poetry.  Ossian  seems 
to  speak  a  gigantic  and  universal  language. 
The  images  and  pictures  occupy  even  much 
space  in  the  landscape,  as  if  they  could  be  seen 
only  from  the  sides  of  mountains,  and  plains 
with  a  wide  horizon,  or  across  arms  of  the  sea. 
The  machinery  is  so  massive  that  it  cannot  be 
less  than  natural.  Oivana  says  to  the  spirit  of 
her  father,  "Gray-haired  Torkil  of  Tome," 
seen  in  the  skies,  — 


458  A  WEEK 

"  Thou  glidest  away  like  receding  ships." 

So  when  the  hosts  of  Fingal  and  Starne  ap 
proach  to  battle,  — 

"  With  murmurs  loud,  like  rivers  far, 
The  race  of  Torne  hither  moved." 

And  when  compelled  to  retire,  — 

"  dragging  his  spear  behind, 
Cudulin  sank  in  the  distant  wood, 
Like  a  fire  upblazing  ere  it  dies." 

Nor  did  Fingal  want  a  proper  audience  when 
he  spoke,  — 

"  A  thousand  orators  inclined 
To  hear  the  lay  of  Fingal." 

The  threats  too  would  have  deterred  a  man. 
Vengeance  and  terror  were  real.  Trenmore 
threatens  the  young  warrior  whom  he  meets  on 
a  foreign  strand,  — 

"  Thy  mother  shall  find  thee  pale  on  the  shore, 
While  lessening  on  the  waves  she  spies 
The  sails  of  him  who  slew  her  son." 

If  Ossian's  heroes  weep,  it  is  from  excess  of 
strength,  and  not  from  weakness,  a  sacrifice  or 
libation  of  fertile  natures,  like  the  perspiration 
of  stone  in  summer's  heat.  We  hardly  know 
that  tears  have  been  shed,  and  it  seems  as  if 
weeping  were  proper  only  for  babes  and  heroes. 
Their  joy  and  their  sorrow  are  made  of  one 
stuff,  like  rain  and  snow,  the  rainbow  and  the 
mist.  When  Fillan  was  worsted  in  fight,  and 
ashamed  in  the  presence  of  Fingal,  —  fc 


FRIDAY  459 

"  He  strode  away  forthwith, 
And  bent  in  grief  above  a  stream, 
His  cheeks  bedewed  with  tears. 
From  time  to  time  the  thistles  gray 
He  lopped  with  his  inverted  lance." 

Crodar,  blind  and  old,  receives  Ossian,  son  of 
Fingal,  who  comes  to  aid  him  in  war :  — 

"  '  My  eyes  have  failed,'  says  he,  '  Crodar  is  blind, 
Is  thy  strength  like  that  of  thy  fathers  ? 
Stretch,  Ossian,  thine  arm  to  the  hoary-haired.' 

I  gave  my  arm  to  the  king. 
The  aged  hero  seized  my  hand ; 
He  heaved  a  heavy  sigh  ; 
Tears  flowed  incessant  down  his  cheek. 
*  Strong  art  thou,  son  of  the  mighty, 
Though  not  so  dreadful  as  Morven's  prince. 

Let  my  feast  be  spread  in  the  hall, 
Let  every  sweet-voiced  minstrel  sing ; 
Great  is  he  who  is  within  my  walls, 
Sons  of  wave-echoing  Croma.'  " 

Even  Ossian  himself,  the  hero-bard,  pays  trib 
ute  to  the  superior  strength  of  his  father  Fingal. 

"  How  beauteous,  mighty  man,  was  thy  mind, 
Why  succeeded  Ossian  without  its  strength  ?  " 


While  we  sailed  fleetly  before  the  wind,  with 
the  river  gurgling  under  our  stern,  the  thoughts 
of  autumn  coursed  as  steadily  through  our 
minds,  and  we  observed  less  what  was  passing 
on  the  shore,  than  the  dateless  associations  and 
impressions  which  the  season  awakened,  antici 
pating  in  some  measure  the  progress  of  the  year. 


460  A   WEEK 

I  hearing  get,  who  had  but  ears, 

And  sight,  who  had  but  eyes  before, 
I  moments  live,  who  lived  but  years, 

And  truth  discern,  who  knew  but  learning's  lore. 

Sitting  with  our  faces  now  upstream,  we  stud 
ied  the  landscape  by  degree?,  as  one  unrolls  a 
map,  rock,  tree,  house,  hill,  and  meadow,  as 
suming  new  and  varying  positions  as  wind  and 
water  shifted  the  scene,  and  there  was  variety 
enough  for  our  entertainment  in  the  metamor 
phoses  of  the  simplest  objects.  Viewed  from 
this  side  the  scenery  appeared  new  to  us. 

The  most  familiar  sheet  of  water,  viewed  from 
a  new  hill-top,  yields  a  novel  and  unexpected 
pleasure.  When  we  have  traveled  a  few  miles, 
we  do  not  recognize  the  profiles  even  of  the  hills 
which  overlook  our  native  village,  and  perhaps 
no  man  is  quite  familiar  with  the  horizon  as 
seen  from  the  hill  nearest  to  his  house,  and  can 
recall  its  outline  distinctly  when  in  the  valley. 
We  do  not  commonly  know,  beyond  a  short  dis 
tance,  which  way  the  hills  range  which  take  in 
our  houses  and  farms  in  their  sweep.  As  if 
our  birth  had  at  first  sundered  things,  and  we 
had  been  thrust  up  through  into  nature  like 
a  wedge,  and  not  till  the  wound  heals  and  the 
scar  disappears  do  we  begin  to  discover  where 
we  are,  and  that  nature  is  one  and  continuous 
everywhere.  It  is  an  important  epoch  when  a 


FRIDAY  461 

man  who  has  always  lived  on  the  east  side  of  a 
mountain,  and  seen  it  in  the  west,  travels  round 
and  sees  it  in  the  east.  Yet  the  universe  is  a 
sphere  whose  centre  is  wherever  there  is  intel 
ligence.  The.  sun_Js  not  so  central  as  a  man. 
Upon  an  isolated  hiU-tbp,~  in  ~ah  open  country, 
we  seem  to  ourselves  to  be  standing  on  the  boss 
of  an  immense  shield,  the  immediate  landscape 
being  apparently  depressed  below  the  more  re 
mote,  and  rising  gradually  to  the  horizon,  which 
is  the  rim  of  the  shield,  villas,  steeples,  forests, 
mountains,  one  above  another,  till  they  are  swal 
lowed  up  in  the  heavens.  The  most  distant 
mountains  in  the  horizon  appear  to  rise  directly 
from  the  shore  of  that  lake  in  the  woods  by 
which  we  chance  to  be  standing,  while  from  the 
mountain-top,  not  only  this,  but  a  thousand 
nearer  and  larger  lakes,  are  equally  unobserved. 
Seen  through  this  clear  atmosphere,  the 
works  of  the  farmer,  his  ploughing  and  reap 
ing,  had  a  beauty  to  our  eyes  which  he  never 
saw.  How  fortunate  were  we  who  did  not  own 
an  acre  of  these  shores,  who  had  not  renounced 
•ur  title  to  the  whole.  One  who  knew  how  to 
appropriate  the  true  value  of  this  world  would 
be  the  poorest  man  in  it.  The  poor  rich  man ! 
all  he  has  is  what  he  has  bought.  What  I  see 
is  mine.  I  am  a  large  owner  in  the  Merrimack 
intervals. 


462  A  WEEK 

Men  dig  and  dive  but  cannot  my  wealth  spend, 
Who  yet  no  partial  store  appropriate, 

Who  no  armed  ship  into  the  Indies  send, 
To  rob  me  of  my  orient  estate. 

He  is  the  rich  man,  and  enjoys  the  fruits  of 
riches,  who  summer  and  winter  forever  can  find 
delight  in  his  own  thoughts.  Buy  a  farm! 
What  have  I  to  pay  for  a  farm  which  a  farmer 
will  take? 

When  I  visit  again  some  haunt  of  my  youth, 
I  am  glad  to  find  that  nature  wears  so  well. 
The  landscape  is  indeed  something  real,  and 
solid,  and  sincere,  and  I  have  not  put  my  foot 
through  it  yet.  There  is  a  pleasant  tract  on 
the  bank  of  the  Concord,  called  Conantum, 
which  I  have  in  my  mind ;  —  the  old  deserted 
farm-house,  the  desolate  pasture  with  its  bleak 
cliff,  the  open  wood,  the  river-reach,  the  green 
meadow  in  the  midst,  and  the  moss-grown  wild- 
apple  orchard,  —  places  where  one  may  have 
many  thoughts  and  not  decide  anything.  It  is 
a  scene  which  I  cannot  only  remember,  as  I 
might  a  vision,  but  when  I  will  can  bodily  re 
visit,  and  find  it  even  so,  unaccountable,  yet 
unpretending  in  its  pleasant  dreariness.  When 
my  thoughts  are  sensible  of  change,  I  love  to 
see  and  sit  on  rocks  which  I  have  known,  and 
pry  into  their  moss,  and  see  unchangeableness 
so  established.  I  not  yet  gray  on  rocks  forever 


FRIDAY  463 

gray,  I  no  longer  green  under  the  evergreens. 
There  is  something  even  in  the  lapse  of  time  by 
which  time  recovers  itself. 

As  we  have  said,  it  proved  a  cool  as  well  as 
breezy  day,  and  by  the  time  we  reached  Peni- 
chook  Brook  we  were  obliged  to  sit  muffled  in 
our  cloaks,  while  the  wind  and  current  carried 
us  along.  We  bounded  swiftly  over  the  rip 
pling  surface,  far  by  many  cultivated  lands  and 
the  ends  of  fences  which  divided  innumerable 
farms,  with  hardly  a  thought  for  the  various 
lives  which  they  separated;  now  by  long  rows 
of  alders  or  groves  of  pines  or  oaks,  and  now 
by  some  homestead  where  the  women  and  chil 
dren  stood  outside  to  gaze  at  us,  till  we  had  swept 
out  of  their  sight,  and  beyond  the  limit  of  their 
longest  Saturday  ramble.  We  glided  past  the 
mouth  of  the  Nashua,  and  not  long  after,  of 
Salmon  Brook,  without  more  pause  than  the 
wind. 

Salmon  Brook, 
Penichook, 

Ye  sweet  waters  of  my  brain, 
When  shall  I  look, 
Or  cast  the  hook, 
In  your  waves  again  ? 

Silver  eels, 
Wooden  creels, 

These  the  baits  that  still  allure, 
And  dragon-fly 
That  floated  by, 
May  they  still  endure  ? 


464  A   WEEK 

The  shadows  chased  one  another  swiftly  over 
wood  and  meadow,  and  their  alternation  har 
monized  with  our  mood.  We  could  distinguish 
the  clouds  which  cast  each  one,  though  never 
so  high  in  the  heavens.  When  a  shadow  flits 
across  the  landscape  of  the  soul,  where  is  the 
substance?  Probably,  if  we  were  wise  enough, 
we  should  see  to  what  virtue  we  are  indebted 
for  any  happier  moment  we  enjoy.  No  doubt 
we  have  earned  it  at  some  time ;  for  the  gifts 
of  Heaven  are  never  quite  gratuitous.  The 
constant  abrasion  and  decay  of  our  lives  makes 
the  soil  of  our  future  growth.  The  wood  which 
we  now  mature,  when  it  becomes  virgin  mould, 
determines  the  character  of  our  second  growth, 
whether  that  be  oaks  or  pines.  Every  man 
casts  a  shadow ;  not  his  body  only,  but  his  im 
perfectly  mingled  spirit.  This  is  his  grief. 
Let  him  turn  which  way  he  will,  it  falls  oppo 
site  to  the  sun ;  short  at  noon,  long  at  eve.  Did 
you  never  see  it?  But,  referred  to  the  sun,  it 
is  widest  at  its  base,  which  is  no  greater  than 
his  own  opacity.  The  divine  light  is  diffused 
almost  entirely  around  us,  and  by  means  of  the 
refraction  of  light,  or  else  by  a  certain  self- 
luminousness,  or,  as  some  will  have  it,  trans- 
parency,  if  we  preserve  ourselves  untarnished, 
we  are  able  to  enlighten  our  shaded  side.  At 
\  any  rate,  our  darkest  grief  has  that  bronze  color 


FRIDAY  465 

of  the  moon  eclipsed.  There  is  no  ill  which 
may  not  be  dissipated,  like  the  dark,  if  you  let 
in  a  stronger  light  upon  it.  Shadows,  referred 
to  the  source  of  light,  are  pyramids  whose  bases 
are  never  greater  than  those  of  the  substances 
which  cast  them,  but  light  is  a  spherical  con 
geries  of  pyramids,  whose  very  apexes  are  the 
sun  itself,  and  hence  the  system  shines  with  un 
interrupted  light.  But  if  the  light  we  use  is 
but  a  paltry  and  narrow  taper,  most  objects  will 
cast  a  shadow  wider  than  themselves. 

The  places  where  we  had  stopped  or  spent 
the  night  in  our  way  up  the  river  had  already 
acquired  a  slight  historical  interest  for  us;  for 
many  upward  days'  voyaging  were  unraveled 
in  this  rapid  downward  passage.  When  one 
landed  to  stretch  his  limbs  by  walking,  he  soon 
found  himself  falling  behind  his  companion,  and 
was  obliged  to  take  advantage  of  the  curves, 
and  ford  the  brooks  and  ravines  in  haste,  to 
recover  his  ground.  Already  the  banks  and  the 
distant  meadows  wore  a  sober  and  deepened 
tinge,  for  the  September  air  had  shorn  them  of 
their  summer's  pride. 

"  And  what 's  a  life  ?     The  flourishing  array 
Of  the  proud  summer  meadow,  which  to-day 
Wears  her  green  plush,  and  is  to-morrow  hay." 

The  air  was  really  the  "fine  element"  which 
the  poets  describe.  It  had  a  finer  and  sharper 


466  A   WEEK 

grain,  seen  against  the  russet  pastures  and 
meadows,  than  before,  as  if  cleansed  of  the 
summer's  impurities. 

Having  passed  the  New  Hampshire  line  and 
reached  the  Horseshoe  Interval  in  Tyngsbor- 
ough,  where  there  is  a  high  and  regular  second 
bank,  we  climbed  up  this  in  haste  to  get  a 
nearer  sight  of  the  autumnal  flowers,  asters, 
golden-rod,  and  yarrow,  and  blue-curls  (Trichos- 
tema  dichotomum),  humble  roadside  blossoms, 
and,  lingering  still,  the  harebell  and  the  Rhexia 
Virginica.  The  last,  growing  in  patches  of 
lively  pink  flowers  on  the  edge  of  the  meadows, 
had  almost  too  gay  an  appearance  for  the  rest 
of  the  landscape,  like  a  pink  ribbon  on  the  bon 
net  of  a  Puritan  woman.  Asters  and  golden- 
rods  were  the  livery  which  nature  wore  at  pres 
ent.  The  latter  alone  expressed  all  the  ripeness 
of  the  season,  and  shed  their  mellow  lustre  over 
the  fields,  as  if  the  now  declining  summer's  sun 
had  bequeathed  its  hues  to  them.  It  is  the 
floral  solstice  a  little  after  midsummer,  when 
the  particles  of  golden  light,  the  sun-dust,  have, 
as  it  were,  fallen  like  seeds  on  the  earth,  and 
produced  these  blossoms.  On  every  hillside, 
and  in  every  valley,  stood  countless  asters,  core- 
opses,  tansies,  golden-rods,  and  the  whole  race 
of  yellow  flowers,  like  Brahminical  devotees, 
turning  steadily  with  their  luminary  from  morn 
ing  till  night. 


FRIDAY  467 

**  I  see  the  golden-rod  shine  hright, 

As  sun-showers  at  the  birth  of  day, 
A  golden  plume  of  yellow  light, 

That  robs  the  Day-god's  splendid  ray. 

"The  aster's  violet  rays  divide 

The  bank  with  many  stars  for  me, 
And  yarrow  in  blanch  tints  is  dyed, 
As  moonlight  floats  across  the  sea. 

"  I  see  the  emerald  woods  prepare 

To  shed  their  vestiture  once  more, 
And  distant  elm-trees  spot  the  air 
With  yellow  pictures  softly  o'er. 

"No  more  the  water-lily's  pride 

In  milk-white  circles  swims  content, 
No  more  the  blue- weed's  clusters  ride 
And  mock  the  heavens'  element. 

'*  Autumn,  thy  wreath  and  mine  are  blent 

With  the  same  colors,  for  to  me 
A  richer  sky  than  all  is  lent, 

While  fades  my  dream-like  company. 

"  Our  skies  glow  purple,  but  the  wind 

Sobs  chill  through  green  trees  and  bright  grass, 
To-day  shines  fair,  and  lurk  behind 
The  times  that  into  winter  pass. 

"  So  fair  we  seem,  so  cold  we  are, 

So  fast  we  hasten  to  decay, 
Yet  through  our  night  glows  many  a  star, 
That  still  shall  claim  its  sunny  day." 


So  sang  a  Concord  poet  once. 


468  A  WEEK 

There  is  a  peculiar  interest  belonging  to  the 
still  later  flowers,  which  abide  with  us  the  ap 
proach  of  winter.  There  is  something  witch- 
like  in  the  appearance  of  the  witch  hazel,  which 
blossoms  late  in  October  and  in  November,  with 
its  irregular  and  angular  spray  and  petals  like 
furies'  hair,  or  small  ribbon  streamers.  Its 
blossoming,  too,  at  this  irregular  period,  when 
other  shrubs  have  lost  their  leaves,  as  well  as 
blossoms,  looks  like  witches'  craft.  Certainly 
it  blooms  in  no  garden  of  man's.  There  is  a 
whole  fairy -land  on  the  hillside  where  it  grows. 

Some  have  thought  that  the  gales  do  not  at 
present  waft  to  the  voyager  the  natural  and 
original  fragrance  of  the  land,  such  as  the  early 
navigators  described,  and  that  the  loss  of  many 
odoriferous  native  plants,  sweet-scented  grasses 
and  medicinal  herbs,  which  formerly  sweetened 
the  atmosphere,  and  rendered  it  salubrious,  — 
by  the  grazing  of  cattle  and  the  rooting  of 
swine,  is  the  source  of  many  diseases  which  now 
prevail;  the  earth,  say  they,  having  been  long 
subjected  to  extremely  artificial  and  luxurious 
modes  of  cultivation,  to  gratify  the  appetite, 
converted  into  a  stye  and  hot-bed,  where  men 
for  profit  increase  the  ordinary  decay  of  nature. 

According  to  the  record  of  an  old  inhabitant 
of  Tyngsborough,  now  dead,  whose  farm  we 


FRIDAY  469 

were  now  gliding  past,  one  of  the  greatest 
freshets  on  this  river  took  place  in  October, 
1785,  and  its  height  was  marked  by  a  nail  driven 
into  an  apple-tree  behind  his  house.  One  of  his 
descendants  has  shown  this  to  me,  and  I  judged 
it  to  be  at  least  seventeen  or  eighteen  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  river  at  the  time.  According 
to  Barber,  the  river  rose  twenty -one  feet  above 
the  common  high -water  mark  at  Bradford  in 
the  year  1818.  Before  the  Lowell  and  Nashua 
railroad  was  built,  the  engineer  made  inquiries 
of  the  inhabitants  along  the  banks  as  to  how 
high  they  had  known  the  river  to  rise.  When 
he  came  to  this  house  he  was  conducted  to  the 
apple-tree,  and  as  the  nail  was  not  then  visible, 
the  lady  of  the  house  placed  her  hand  on  the 
trunk  where  she  said  that  she  remembered  the 
nail  to  have  been  from  her  childhood.  In  the 
mean  while  the  old  man  put  his  arm  inside 
the  tree,  which  was  hollow,  and  felt  the  point  of 
the  nail  sticking  through,  and  it  was  exactly 
opposite  to  her  hand.  The  spot  is  now  plainly 
marked  by  a  notch  in  the  bark.  But  as  no  one 
else  remembered  the  river  to  have  risen  so  high 
as  this,  the  engineer  disregarded  this  statement, 
and  I  learn  that  there  has  since  been  a  freshet 
which  rose  within  nine  inches  of  the  rails  at 
Biscuit  Brook,  and  such  a  freshet  as  that  of 
1785  would  have  covered  the  railroad  two  feet 
deep. 


470  A   WEEK 

The  revolutions  of  nature  tell  as  fine  tales, 
and  make  as  interesting  revelations,  on  this 
river's  banks,  as  on  the  Euphrates  or  the  Nile. 
This  apple-tree,  which  stands  within  a  few  rods 
of  the  river,  is  called  "Elisha's  apple-tree," 
from  a  friendly  Indian,  who  was  anciently  in 
the  service  of  Jonathan  Tyng,  and,  with  one 
other  man,  was  killed  here  by  his  own  race  in 
one  of  the  Indian  wars,  — the  particulars  of 
which  affair  were  told  us  on  the  spot.  He  was 
buried  close  by,  no  one  knew  exactly  where,  but 
in  the  flood  of  1785,  so  great  a  weight  of  water 
standing  over  the  grave  caused  the  earth  to  set 
tle  where  it  had  once  been  disturbed,  and  when 
the  flood  went  down,  a  sunken  spot,  exactly  of 
the  form  and  size  of  the  grave,  revealed  its 
locality;  but  this  was  now  lost  again,  and  no 
future  flood  can  detect  it;  yet,  no  doubt,  na 
ture  will  know  how  to  point  it  out  in  due  time, 
if  it  be  necessary,  by  methods  yet  more  search 
ing  and  unexpected.  Thus  there  is  not  only 
the  crisis  when  the  spirit  ceases  to  inspire  and 
expand  the  body,  marked  by  a  fresh  mound  in 
the  churchyard,  but  there  is  also  a  crisis  when 
the  body  ceases  to  take  up  room  as  such  in 
nature,  marked  by  a  fainter  depression  in  the 
earth. 

We  sat  awhile  to  rest  us  here  upon  the  brink 
of  the  western  bank,  surrounded  by  the  glossy 


FRIDAY  471 

leaves  of  the  red  variety  of  the  mountain  laurel, 
just  above  the  head  of  Wicasuck  Island,  where 
we  could  observe  some  scows  which  were  load 
ing  with  clay  from  the  opposite  shore,  and  also 
overlook  the  grounds  of  the  farmer,  of  whom  I 
have  spoken,  who  once  hospitably  entertained 
us  for  a  night.  He  had  on  his  pleasant  farm, 
besides  an  abundance  of  the  beach-plum,  or 
Prunus  littoralis,  which  grew  wild,  the  Canada 
plum  under  cultivation,  fine  Porter  apples,  some 
peaches,  and  large  patches  of  musk  and  water 
melons,  which  he  cultivated  for  the  Lowell  mar 
ket.  Elisha's  apple  -  tree,  too,  bore  a  native 
fruit,  which  was  prized  by  the  family ;  he  raised 
the  blood  peach,  which,  as  he  showed  us  with 
satisfaction,  was  more  like  the  oak  in  the  color 
of  its  bark  and  in  the  setting  of  its  branches,  and 
was  less  liable  to  break  down  under  the  weight 
of  the  fruit,  or  the  snow,  than  other  varieties. 
It  was  of  slower  growth,  and  its  branches  strong 
and  tough.  There,  also,  was  his  nursery  of 
native  apple-trees,  thickly  set  upon  the  bank, 
which  cost  but  little  care,  and  which  he  sold  to 
the  neighboring  farmers  when  they  were  five  or 
six  years  old.  To  see  a  single  peach  upon  its 
stem  makes  an  impression  of  paradisaical  fer 
tility  and  luxury.  This  reminded  us  even  of 
an  old  Roman  farm,  as  described  by  Varro :  — — 
M  Caesar  Vopiscus  ^iEdilicius,  when  he  pleaded 


472  A  WEEK 

before  the  Censors,  said  that  the  grounds  of 
Rosea  were  the  garden  (sumen,  the  tid-bit)  of 
Italy,  in  which  a  pole  being  left  would  not  be 
visible  the  day  after,  on  account  of  the  growth 
of  the  herbage."  This  soil  may  not  have  been 
remarkably  fertile,  yet  at  this  distance  we 
thought  that  this  anecdote  might  be  told  of  the 
Tyngsborough  farm. 

When  we  passed  Wicasuck  Island,  there  was 
a  pleasure  boat  containing  a  youth  and  a  maiden 
on  the  island  brook,  which  we  were  pleased  to 
see,  since  it  proved  that  there  were  some  here 
abouts  to  whom  our  excursion  would  not  be 
wholly  strange.  Before  this,  a  canal-boatman, 
of  whom  we  made  some  inquiries  respecting 
Wicasuck  Island,  and  who  told  us  that  it  was 
disputed  property,  suspected  that  we  had  a 
claim  upon  it,  and  though  we  assured  him  that 
all  this  was  news  to  us,  and  explained,  as  well 
as  we  could,  why  we  had  come  to  see  it,  he  be 
lieved  not  a  word  of  it,  and  seriously  offered  us 
one  hundred  dollars  for  our  title.  The  only 
other  small  boats  which  we  met  with  were  used 
to  pick  up  drift-wood.  Some  of  the  poorer  class 
ilong  the  stream  collect,  in  this  way,  all  the 
fuel  which  they  require.  While  one  of  us  landed 
not  far  from  this  island  to  forage  for  provisions 
among  the  farm-houses  whose  roofs  we  saw,  for 
our  supply  was  now  exhausted,  the  other,  sitting 


FRIDAY  473 

in  the  boat,  which  was  moored  to  the  shore,  was 
left  alone  to  his  reflections. 

If  there  is  nothing  new  on  the  earth,  still  the 
traveler  always  has  a  resource  in  the  skies. 
They  are  constantly  turning  a  new  page  to 
view.  The  wind  sets  the  types  on  this  blue 
ground,  and  the  inquiring  may  always  read  a 
new  truth  there.  There  are  things  there  written 
with  such  fine  and  subtile  tinctures,  paler  than 
the  juice  of  limes,  that  to  the  diurnal  eye  they 
leave  no  trace,  and  only  the  chemistry  of  night 
reveals  them.  Every  man's  daylight  firmament 
answers  in  his  mind  to  the  brightness  of  the 
vision  in  his  starriest  hour. 

These  continents  and  hemispheres  are  soon 
run  over,  but  an  always  unexplored  and  infinite 
region  makes  off  on  every  side  from  the  mind, 
further  than  to  sunset,  and  we  can  make  no 
highway  or  beaten  track  into  it,  but  the  grass 
immediately  springs  up  in  the  path,  for  we 
travel  there  chiefly  with  our  wings. 

Sometimes  we  see  objects  as  through  a  thin 
haze,  in  their  eternal  relations,  and  they  stand 
like  Palenque  and  the  Pyramids,  and  we  won 
der  who  set  them  up,  and  for  what  purpose.  If 
we  see  the  reality  in  things,  of  what  moment 
is  the  superficial  and  apparent  longer?  What 
are  the  earth  and  all  its  interests  beside  the 
deep  surmise  which  pierces  and  scatters  them? 


474  A  WEEK 

While  I  sit  here  listening  to  the  waves  which 
ripple  and  break  on  this  shore,  I  am  absolved 
from  all  obligation  to  the  past,  and  the  council 
of  nations  may  reconsider  its  votes.  The  grat 
ing  of  a  pebble  annuls  them.  Still  occasionally 
in  my  dreams  I  remember  that  rippling  water. 

Oft,  as  I  turn  me  on  my  pillow  o'er, 
I  hear  the  lapse  of  waves  upon  the  shore, 
Distinct  as  if  it  were  at  broad  noonday, 
And  I  were  drifting  down  from  Nashua. 

With  a  bending  sail  we  glided  rapidly  by 
Tyngsborough  and  Chelmsford,  each  holding  in 
one  hand  half  of  a  tart  country  apple-pie  which 
we  had  purchased  to  celebrate  our  return,  and 
in  the  other  a  fragment  of  the  newspaper  in 
which  it  was  wrapped,  devouring  these  with 
divided  relish,  and  learning  the  news  which 
had  transpired  since  we  sailed.  The  river  here 
opened  into  a  broad  and  straight  reach  of  great 
length,  which  we  bounded  merrily  over  before 
a  smacking  breeze,  with  a  devil-may-care  look 
in  our  faces,  and  our  boat  a  white  bone  in  its 
mouth,  and  a  speed  which  greatly  astonished 
some  scow  boatmen  whom  we  met.  The  wind 
in  the  horizon  rolled  like  a  flood  over  valley  and 
plain,  and  every  tree  bent  to  the  blast,  and  the 
mountains  like  school-boys  turned  their  cheeks 
to  it.  They  were  great  and  current  motions, 
the  flowing  sail,  the  running  stream,  the  waving 


FRIDA  Y  475 

tree,  the  roving  wind.  The  north  wind  stepped 
readily  into  the  harness  which  we  had  provided, 
and  pulled  us  along  with  good  will.  Sometimes 
we  sailed  as  gently  and  steadily  as  the  clouds 
overhead,  watching  the  receding  shores  and  the 
motions  of  our  sail ;  the  play  of  its  pulse  so  like 
our  own  lives,  so  thin  and  yet  so  full  of  life,  so 
noiseless  when  it  labored  hardest,  so  noisy  and 
impatient  when  least  effective;  now  bending  to 
some  generous  impulse  of  the  breeze,  and  then 
fluttering  and  flapping  with  a  kind  of  human 
suspense.  It  was  the  scale  on  which  the  vary 
ing  temperature  of  distant  atmospheres  was 
graduated,  and  it  was  some  attraction  for  us 
that  the  breeze  it  played  with  had  been  out  of 
doors  so  long.  Thus  we  sailed,  not  being  able 
to  fly,  but  as  next  best,  making  a  long  furrow 
in  the  fields  of  the  Merrimack  toward  our  home, 
with  our  wings  spread,  but  never  lifting  our 
heel  from  the  watery  trench ;  gracefully  plough 
ing  homeward  with  our  brisk  and  willing  team, 
wind  and  stream,  pulling  together,  the  former 
yet  a  wild  steer,  yoked  to  his  more  sedate  fel 
low.  It  was  very  near  flying,  as  when  the  duck 
rushes  through  the  water  with  an  impulse  of  her 
wings,  throwing  the  spray  about  her  before  she 
can  rise.  How  we  had  stuck  fast  if  drawn  up 
but  a  few  feet  on  the  shore ! 

When  we  reached  the  great  bend  just  above 


476  A  WEEK 

Middlesex,  where  the  river  runs  east  thirty -five 
miles  to  the  sea,  we  at  length  lost  the  aid  of  this 
propitious  wind,  though  we  contrived  to  make 
one  long  and  judicious  tack  carry  us  nearly  to 
the  locks  of  the  canal.  We  were  here  locked 
through  at  noon  by  our  old  friend,  the  lover  of 
the  higher  mathematics,  who  seemed  glad  to  see 
us  safe  back  again  through  so  many  locks ;  but 
we  did  not  stop  to  consider  any  of  his  problems, 
though  we  could  cheerfully  have  spent  a  whole 
autumn  in  this  way  another  time,  and  never 
have  asked  what  his  religion  was.  It  is  so  rare 
to  meet  with  a  man  out-doors  who  cherishes  a 
worthy  thought  in  his  mind,  which  is  indepen 
dent  of  the  labor  of  his  hands.  Behind  every 
man's  busy-ness  there  should  be  a  level  of  undis 
turbed  serenity  and  industry,  as  within  the  reef 
encircling  a  coral  isle  there  is  always  an  expanse 
of  still  water,  where  the  depositions  are  going 
on  which  will  finally  raise  it  above  the  surface. 

The  eye  which  can  appreciate  the  naked  and 
absolute  beauty  of  a  scientific  truth  is  far  more 
rare  than  that  which  is  attracted  by  a  moral  one. 
Few  detect  the  morality  in  the  former,  or  the 
science  in  the  latter.  Aristotle  defined  art  to 
be  Aoyos  TOV  cpyov  avev  vA^s,  The  principle  of  the 
work  without  the  wood  ;  but  most  men  prefer  to 
have  some  of  the  wood  along  with  the  principle ; 


FRIDAY  477 

they  demand  that  the  truth  be  clothed  in  flesh 
and  blood  and  the  warm  colors  of  life.  They 
prefer  the  partial  statement  because  it  fits  and 
measures  them  and  their  commodities  best. 
But  science  still  exists  everywhere  as  the  sealer 
of  weights  and  measures  at  least. 

We  have  heard  much  about  the  poetry  of 
mathematics,  but  very  little  of  it  has  yet  been 
sung.  The  ancients  had  a  juster  notion  of  their 
poetic  value  than  we.  The  most  distinct  and 
beautiful  statement  of  any  truth  must  take  at 
last  the  mathematical  form.  We  might  so  sim 
plify  the  rules  of  moral  philosophy,  as  well  as 
of  arithmetic,  that  one  formula  would  express 
them  both.  All  the  moral  laws  are  readily 
translated  into  natural  philosophy,  for  often  we 
have  only  to  restore  the  primitive  meaning  of 
the  words  by  which  they  are  expressed,  or  to 
attend  to  their  literal  instead  of  their  metaphor 
ical  sense.  They  are  already  supernatural  phi 
losophy.  The  whole  body  of  what  is  now  called 
tooral  or  ethical  truth  existed  in  the  golden  age 
as  abstract  science.  Or,  if  we  prefer,  we  may 
say  that  the  laws  of  Nature  are  the  purest  mo 
rality.  The  Tree  of  Knowledge  is  a  Tree  of 
Knowledge  of  good  and  evil.  He  is  not  a  true 
man  of  science  who  does  not  bring  some  sympa 
thy  to  his  studies,  and  expect  to  learn  some 
thing  by  behavior  as  well  as  by  application.  Il 


478  A   WEEK 

is  childish  to  rest  in  the  discovery  of  mere  coin 
cidences,  or  of  partial  and  extraneous  laws.  The 
study  of  geometry  is  a  petty  and  idle  exercise  of 
the  mind,  if  it  is  applied  to  no  larger  system 
than  the  starry  one.  Mathematics  should  be 
mixed  not  only  with  physics  but  with  ethics, 
that  is  mixed  mathematics.  The  fact  which 
interests  us  most  is  the  life  of  the  naturalist. 
The  purest  science  is  still  biographical.  No 
thing  will  dignify  and  elevate  science  while  it  is 
sundered  so  wholly  from  the  moral  life  of  its 
devotee,  and  he  professes  another  religion  than 
it  teaches,  and  worships  at  a  foreign  shrine. 
Anciently  the  faith  of  a  philosopher  was  identi 
cal  with  his  system,  or,  in  other  words,  his  view 
of  the  universe. 

My  friends  mistake  when  they  communicate 
facts  to  me  with  so  much  pains.  Their  pres 
ence,  even  their  exaggerations  and  loose  state 
ments,  are  equally  good  facts  for  me.  I  have 
no  respect  for  facts  even  except  when  I  would 
use  them,  and  for  the  most  part  I  am  indepen 
dent  of  those  which  I  hear,  and  can  afford  to 
be  inaccurate,  or,  in  other  words,  to  substitute 
more  present  and  pressing  facts  in  their  place. 

The  poet  uses  the  results  of  science  and  phi 
losophy,  and  generalizes  their  widest  deductions. 

The  process  of  discovery  is  very  simple.  An 
unwearied  and  systematic  application  of  known 


FRIDA  Y  479 

laws  to  nature  causes  the  unknown  to  reveal 
themselves.  Almost  any  mode  of  observation 
will  be  successful  at  last,  for  what  is  most 
wanted  is  method.  Only  let  something  be  de 
termined  and  fixed  around  which  observation 
may  rally.  How  many  new  relations  a  foot- 
rule  alone  will  reveal,  and  to  how  many  things 
still  this  has  not  been  applied !  What  wonder 
ful  discoveries  have  been  and  may  still  be  made, 
with  a  plumb-line,  a  level,  a  surveyor's  com 
pass,  a  thermometer,  or  a  barometer!  Where 
there  is  an  observatory  and  a  telescope,  we  ex 
pect  that  any  eyes  will  see  new  worlds  at  once. 
I  should  say  that  the  most  prominent  scientific 
men  of  our  country,  and  perhaps  of  this  age, 
are  either  serving  the  arts  and  not  pure  science, 
or  are  performing  faithful  but  quite  subordinate 
labors  in  particular  departments.  They  make 
no  steady  and  systematic  approaches  to  the  cen 
tral  fact.  A  discovery  is  made,  and  at  once 
the  attention  of  all  observers  is  distracted  to 
that,  and  it  draws  many  analogous  discoveries 
in  its  train ;  as  if  their  work  were  not  already 
laid  out  for  them,  but  they  had  been  lying  on 
their  oars.  There  is  wanting  constant  and  ac 
curate  observation  with  enough  of  theory  to  di 
rect  and  discipline  it. 

But,  above  all,  there  is  wanting  genius.    Our 
books  of  science,  as  they  improve  in  accuracy, 


480  A  WEEK 

are  in  danger  of  losing  the  freshness  and  vigor 
and  readiness  to  appreciate  the  real  laws  of  Na 
ture,  which  is  a  marked  merit  in  the  ofttimes 
false  theories  of  the  ancients.  I  am  attracted 
by  the  slight  pride  and  satisfaction,  the  emphatic 
and  even  exaggerated  style,  in  which  some  of 
the  older  naturalists  speak  of  the  operations  of 
Nature,  though  they  are  better  qualified  to  ap 
preciate  than  to  discriminate  the  facts.  Their 
assertions  are  not  without  value  when  disproved. 
If  they  are  not  facts,  they  are  suggestions  for 
Nature  herself  to  act  upon.  "The  Greeks," 
says  Gesner,  "had  a  common  proverb  (Aa-yos 
icafovSoi'),  a  sleeping  hare,  for  a  dissembler  or 
counterfeit;  because  the  hare  sees  when  she 
sleeps ;  for  this  is  an  admirable  and  rare  work 
of  Nature,  that  all  the  residue  of  her  bodily 
parts  take  their  rest,  but  the  eye  standeth  con 
tinually  sentinel." 

Observation  is  so  wide  awake,  and  facts  are 
being  so  rapidly  added  to  the  sum  of  human 
experience,  that  it  appears  as  if  the  theorizer 
would  always  be  in  arrears,  and  were  doomed 
forever  to  arrive  at  imperfect  conclusions;  but 
the  power  to  perceive  a  law  is  equally  rare  in 
all  ages  of  the  world,  and  depends  but  little  on 
the  number  of  facts  observed.  The  senses  of 
the  savage  will  furnish  him  with  facts  enough 
to  set  him  up  as  a  philosopher.  The  ancients 


FRIDAY  481 

can  still  speak  to  us  with  authority,  even  on 
the  themes  of  geology  and  chemistry,  though 
these  studies  are  thought  to  have  had  their  birth 
in  modern  times.  Much  is  said  about  the  prog 
ress  of  science  in  these  centuries.  I  should  say 
that  the  useful  results  of  science  had  accumu 
lated,  but  that  there  had  been  no  accumulation 
of  knowledge,  strictly  speaking,  for  posterity; 
for  knowledge  is  to  be  acquired  only  by  a  corre 
sponding  experience.  How  can  we  know  what 
we  are  told  merely?  Each  man  can  interpret 
another's  experience  only  by  his  own.  We 
read  that  Newton  discovered  the  law  of  gravita 
tion,  but  how  many  who  have  heard  of  his  fa 
mous  discovery  have  recognized  the  same  truth 
that  he  did?  It  may  be  not  one.  The  revela 
tion  which  was  then  made  to  him  has  not  been 
superseded  by  the  revelation  made  to  any  suc 
cessor. 

We  see  the  planet  fall, 
And  that  is  all. 

In  a  review  of  Sir  James  Clark  Boss's  An 
tarctic  Voyage  of  Discovery,  there  is  a  passage 
which  shows  how  far  a  body  of  men  are  com 
monly  impressed  by  an  object  of  sublimity,  and 
which  is  also  a  good  instance  of  the  step  from 
the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous.  After  describing 
the  discovery  of  the  Antarctic  Continent,  at 
first  seen  a  hundred  miles  distant  over  fields 


482  A  WEEK 

of  ice,  —  stupendous  ranges  of  mountains  from 
seven  and  eight  to  twelve  and  fourteen  thousand 
feet  high,  covered  with  eternal  snow  and  ice, 
in  solitary  and  inaccessible  grandeur,  at  one 
time  the  weather  being  beautifully  clear,  and 
the  sun  shining  on  the  icy  landscape ;  a  conti 
nent  whose  islands  only  are  accessible,  and  these 
exhibited  "not  the  smallest  trace  of  vegeta 
tion,"  only  in  a  few  places  the  rocks  protruding 
through  their  icy  covering,  to  convince  the  be 
holder  that  land  formed  the  nucleus,  and  that 
it  was  not  an  iceberg ;  —  the  practical  British 
reviewer  proceeds  thus,  sticking  to  his  last,  "  On 
the  22d  of  January,  afternoon,  the  Expedition 
made  the  latitude  of  74°  20',  and  by  7h  P.  M., 
having  ground  [ground!  where  did  they  get 
ground?]  to  believe  that  they  were  then  in  a 
higher  southern  latitude  than  had  been  attained 
by  that  enterprising  seaman,  the  late  Captain 
James  Weddel,  and  therefore  higher  than  all 
their  predecessors,  an  extra  allowance  of  grog 
was  issued  to  the  crews  as  a  reward  for  their 
perseverance." 

Let  not  us  sailors  of  late  centuries  take  upon 
ourselves  any  airs  on  account  of  our  Newtons 
and  our  Cuviers ;  we  deserve  an  extra  allowance 
of  grog  only. 

We  endeavored  in  vain  to  persuade  the  wind 


FRIDAY  483 

to  blow  through  the  long  corridor  of  the  canal, 
which  is  here  cut  straight  through  the  woods, 
and  were  obliged  to  resort  to  our  old  expedient 
of  drawing  by  a  cord.  When  we  reached  the 
Concord,  we  were  forced  to  row  once  more  in 
good  earnest,  with  neither  wind  nor  current  in 
our  favor,  but  by  this  time  the  rawness  of  the 
day  had  disappeared,  and  we  experienced  the 
warmth  of  a  summer  afternoon.  This  change 
in  the  weather  was  favorable  to  our  contempla 
tive  mood,  and  disposed  us  to  dream  yet  deeper 
at  our  oars,  while  we  floated  in  imagination 
farther  down  the  stream  of  time,  as  we  had 
floated  down  the  stream  of  the  Merrimack,  to 
poets  of  a  milder  period  than  had  engaged  us 
in  the  morning.  Chelmsford  and  Billerica  ap 
peared  like  old  English  towns,  compared  with 
Merrimack  and  Nashua,  and  many  generations 
of  civil  poets  might  have  lived  and  sung  here. 

What  a  contrast  between  the  stern  and  deso 
late  poetry  of  Ossian,  and  that  of  Chaucer,  and 
even  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  much  more  of 
Dryden,  and  Pope,  and  Gray.  Our  summer  of 
English  poetry,  like  the  Greek  and  Latin  before 
it,  seems  well  advanced  toward  its  fall,  and 
laden  with  the  fruit  and  foliage  of  the  season, 
with  bright  autumnal  tints,  but  soon  the  winter 
will  scatter  its  myriad  clustering  and  shading 


484  A  WEEK 

leaves,  and  leave  only  a  few  desolate  and  fibrous 
boughs  to  sustain  the  snow  and  rime,  and  creak 
in  the  blasts  of  ages.  We  cannot  escape  the 
impression  that  the  Muse  has  stooped  a  little  in 
her  flight,  when  we  come  to  the  literature  of 
civilized  eras.  Now  first  we  hear  of  various 
ages  and  styles  of  poetry;  it  is  pastoral,  and 
lyric,  and  narrative,  and  didactic ;  but  the  poe 
try  of  runic  monuments  is  of  one  style,  and  for 
every  age.  The  bard  has  in  a  great  measure 
lost  the  dignity  and  sacredness  of  his  office. 
Formerly  he  was  called  a  seer,  but  now  it  is 
thought  that  one  man  sees  as  much  as  another. 
He  has  no  longer  the  bardic  rage,  and  only  con 
ceives  the  deed,  which  he  formerly  stood  ready 
to  perform.  Hosts  of  warriors  earnest  for  bat 
tle  could  not  mistake  nor  dispense  with  the  an 
cient  bard.  His  lays  were  heard  in  the  pauses 
of  the  fight.  There  was  no  danger  of  his  being 
overlooked  by  his  contemporaries.  But  now  the 
hero  and  the  bard  are  of  different  professions. 
When  we  come  to  the  pleasant  English  verse, 
the  storms  have  all  cleared  away,  and  it  will 
never  thunder  and  lighten  more.  The  poet  has 
come  within  doors,  and  exchanged  the  forest 
and  crag  for  the  fireside,  the  hut  of  the  Gael, 
and  Stonehenge,  with  its  circles  of  stones,  for 
the  house  of  the  Englishman.  No  hero  stands 
at  the  door  prepared  to  break  forth  into  song  01 


FRIDA  Y  485 

heroic  action,  but  a  homely  Englishman,  who 
cultivates  the  art  of  poetry.  We  see  the  com 
fortable  fireside,  and  hear  the  crackling  fagots, 
in  all  the  verse. 

Notwithstanding  the  broad  humanity  of 
Chaucer,  and  the  many  social  and  domestic 
comforts  which  we  meet  with  in  his  verse,  we 
have  to  narrow  our  vision  somewhat  to  consider 
him,  as  if  he  occupied  less  space  in  the  land 
scape,  and  did  not  stretch  over  hill  and  valley 
as  Ossian  does.  Yet,  seen  from  the  side  of 
posterity,  as  the  father  of  English  poetry,  pre 
ceded  by  a  long  silence  or  confusion  in  history, 
unenlivened  by  any  strain  of  pure  melody,  we 
easily  come  to  reverence  him.  Passing  over 
the  earlier  continental  poets,  since  we  are  bound 
to  the  pleasant  archipelago  of  English  poetry, 
Chaucer's  is  the  first  name  after  that  misty 
weather  in  which  Ossian  lived,  which  can  detain 
us  long.  Indeed,  though  he  represents  so  dif 
ferent  a  culture  and  society,  he  may  be  regarded 
as  in  many  respects  the  Homer  of  the  English 
poets.  Perhaps  he  is  the  youthfulest  of  them 
all.  We  return  to  him  as  to  the  purest  well, 
the  fountain  farthest  removed  from  the  highway 
of  desultory  life.  He  is  so  natural  and  cheer 
ful,  compared  with  later  poets,  that  we  might 
almost  regard  him  as  a  personification  of  spring. 
To  the  faithful  reader  his  muse  has  even  given 


486  A   WEEK 

an  aspect  to  his  times,  and  when  he  is  fresh 
from  perusing  him,  they  seem  related  to  the 
golden  age.  It  is  still  the  poetry  of  youth  and 
life,  rather  than  of  thought;  and  though  the 
moral  vein  is  obvious  and  constant,  it  has  not 
yet  banished  the  sun  and  daylight  from  his 
verse.  The  loftiest  strains  of  the  Muse  are,  for 
the  most  part,  sublimely  plaintive,  and  not  a 
carol  as  free  as  Nature's.  The  content  which 
the  sun  shines  to  celebrate  from  morning  to 
evening  is  unsung.  The  Muse  solaces  herself, 
and  is  not  ravished  but  consoled.  There  is  a 
catastrophe  implied,  and  a  tragic  element  in 
all  our  verse,  and  less  of  the  lark  and  morning 
dews,  than  of  the  nightingale  and  evening 
shades.  But  in  Homer  and  Chaucer  there  is 
more  of  the  innocence  and  serenity  of  youth 
than  in  the  more  modern  and  moral  poets.  The 
Iliad  is  not  Sabbath  but  morning  reading,  and 
men  cling  to  this  old  song,  because  they  still 
have  moments  of  unbaptized  and  uncommitted 
life,  which  give  them  an  appetite  for  more.  To 
the  innocent  there  are  neither  cherubim  nor  an 
gels.  At  rare  intervals  we  rise  above  the  ne 
cessity  of  virtue  into  an  unchangeable  morning 
light,  in  which  we  have  only  to  live  right  on 
and  breathe  the  ambrosial  air.  The  Iliad  rep 
resents  no  creed  nor  opinion,  and  we  read  it 
with  a  rare  sense  of  freedom  and  irresponsibil- 


FRIDA  Y  487 

ity,  as  if  we  trod  on  native  ground,  and  were 
autochthones  of  the  soil. 

Chaucer  had  eminently  the  habits  of  a  liter 
ary  man  and  a  scholar.  There  were  never  any 
times  so  stirring  that  there  were  not  to  be  found 
some  sedentary  still.  He  was  surrounded  by 
the  din  of  arms.  The  battles  of  Hallidon  Hill 
and  Neville's  Cross,  and  the  still  more  mem 
orable  battles  of  Cressy  and  Poictiers,  were 
fought  in  his  youth ;  but  these  did  not  concern 
our  poet  much,  Wickliffe  and  his  reform  much 
more.  He  regarded  himself  always  as  one  priv 
ileged  to  sit  and  converse  with  books.  He 
helped  to  establish  the  literary  class.  His 
character  as  one  of  the  fathers  of  the  English 
language  would  alone  make  his  works  impor 
tant,  even  those  which  have  little  poetical  merit. 
He  was  as  simple  as  Wordsworth  in  preferring 
his  homely  but  vigorous  Saxon  tongue,  when  it 
was  neglected  by  the  court,  and  had  not  yet 
attained  to  the  dignity  of  a  literature,  and  ren 
dered  a  similar  service  to  his  country  to  that 
which  Dante  rendered  to  Italy.  If  Greek  suf- 
ficeth  for  Greek,  and  Arabic  for  Arabian,  and 
Hebrew  for  Jew,  and  Latin  for  Latin,  then 
English  shall  suffice  for  him,  for  any  of  these 
will  serve  to  teach  truth  "right  as  divers  pathes 
leaden  divers  folke  the  right  waye  to  Home." 
In  the  Testament  of  Love  he  writes,  "Let  then 


488  A   WEEK 

clerkes  enditen  in  Latin,  for  they  have  the  prop- 
ertie  of  science,  and  the  knowinge  in  that  facul- 
tie,  and  lette  Frenchmen  in  their  Frenche  also 
enditen  their  queinte  termes,  for  it  is  kyndely 
to  their  mouthes,  and  let  us  shewe  our  fantasies 
in  soche  wordes  as  we  lerneden  of  our  dames 
tonge." 

He  will  know  how  to  appreciate  Chaucer  best 
who  has  come  down  to  him  the  natural  way, 
through  the  meagre  pastures  of  Saxon  and  ante- 
Chaucerian  poetry ;  and  yet,  so  human  and  wise 
he  appears  after  such  diet,  that  we  are  liable  to 
misjudge  him  still.  In  the  Saxon  poetry  ex 
tant,  in  the  earliest  English,  and  the  contempo 
rary  Scottish  poetry,  there  is  less  to  remind  the 
reader  of  the  rudeness  and  vigor  of  youth  than 
of  the  feebleness  of  a  declining  age.  It  is  for 
the  most  part  translation  of  imitation  merely, 
with  only  an  occasional  and  slight  tinge  of 
poetry,  oftentimes  the  falsehood  and  exaggera 
tion  of  fable,  without  its  imagination  to  redeem 
it,  and  we  look  in  vain  to  find  antiquity  re 
stored,  humanized,  and  made  blithe  again  by 
some  natural  sympathy  between  it  and  the  pres 
ent.  But  Chaucer  is  fresh  and  modern  still, 
and  no  dust  settles  on  his  true  passages.  It 
lightens  along  the  line,  and  we  are  reminded 
that  flowers  have  bloomed,  and  birds  sung,  and 
hearts  beaten  in  England.  Before  the  earnest 


FRIDA  Y  489 

gaze  of  the  reader,  the  rust  and  moss  of  time 
gradually  drop  off,  and  the  original  green  life 
is  revealed.  He  was  a  homely  and  domestic 
man,  and  did  breathe  quite  as  modern  men  do. 
There  is  no  wisdom  that  can  take  place  of  hu 
manity,  and  we  find  that  in  Chaucer.  We  can 
expand  at  last  in  his  breadth,  and  we  think  that 
we  could  have  been  that  man's  acquaintance. 
He  was  worthy  to  be  a  citizen  of  England, 
while  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio  lived  in  Italy, 
and  Tell  and  Tamerlane  in  Switzerland  and 
in  Asia,  and  Bruce  in  Scotland,  and  Wickliffe, 
and  Gower,  and  Edward  the  Third,  and  John 
of  Gaunt,  and  the  Black  Prince  were  his  own 
countrymen  as  well  as  contemporaries ;  all  stout 
and  stirring  names.  The  fame  of  Roger  Bacon 
came  down  from  the  preceding  century,  and  the 
name  of  Dante  still  possessed  the  influence  of  a 
living  presence.  On  the  whole,  Chaucer  im 
presses  us  as  greater  than  his  reputation,  and 
not  a  little  like  Homer  and  Shakespeare,  for  he 
would  have  held  up  his  head  in  their  company. 
Among  early  English  poets  he  is  the  landlord 
and  host,  and  has  the  authority  of  such.  The 
affectionate  mention  which  succeeding  early 
poets  make  of  him,  coupling  him  with  Homer 
and  Virgil,  is  to  be  taken  into  the  account  in 
estimating  his  character  and  influence.  King 
James  and  Dunbar  of  Scotland  speak  of  him 


490  A  WEEK 

with  more  love  and  reverence  than  any  modern 
author  of  his  predecessors  of  the  last  century. 
The  same  childlike  relation  is  without  a  parallel 
now.  For  the  most  part  we  read  him  without 
criticism,  for  he  does  not  plead  his  own  cause, 
but  speaks  for  his  readers,  and  has  that  great 
ness  of  trust  and  reliance  which  compels  popu 
larity.  He  confides  in  the  reader,  and  speaks 
privily  with  him,  keeping  nothing  back.  And 
in  return  the  reader  has  great  confidence  in  him, 
that  he  tells  no  lies,  and  reads  his  story  with 
indulgence,  as  if  it  were  the  circumlocution  of  a 
child,  but  often  discovers  afterwards  that  he  has 
spoken  with  more  directness  and  economy  of 
words  than  a  sage.  He  is  never  heartless, — 

"  For  first  the  thing  is  thought  within  the  hart, 
Er  any  word  out  from  the  mouth  astart." 

And  so  new  was  all  his  theme  in  those  days, 
that  he  did  not  have  to  invent,  but  only  to  tell. 
We  admire  Chaucer  for  his  sturdy  English 
wit.  The  easy  height  he  speaks  from  in  his 
Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales,  as  if  he  were 
equal  to  any  of  the  company  there  assembled, 
is  as  good  as  any  particular  excellence  in  it. 
But  though  it  is  full  of  good  sense  and  human 
ity,  it  is  not  transcendent  poetry.  For  pic 
turesque  description  of  persons  it  is,  perhaps, 
without  a  parallel  in  English  poetry;  yet  it 
is  essentially  humorous,  as  the  loftiest  genius 


FRIDAY  491 

never  is.  Humor,  however  broad  and  genial, 
takes  a  narrower  view  than  enthusiasm.  To 
his  own  finer  vein  he  added  all  the  common  wit 
and  wisdom  of  his  time,  and  everywhere  in  his 
works  his  remarkable  knowledge  of  the  world 
and  nice  perception  of  character,  his  rare  com 
mon  sense  and  proverbial  wisdom,  are  apparent. 
His  genius  does  not  soar  like  Milton's,  but  is 
genial  and  familiar.  It  shows  great  tenderness 
and  delicacy,  but  not  the  heroic  sentiment.  It 
is  only  a  greater  portion  of  humanity  with  all 
its  weakness.  He  is  not  heroic,  as  Raleigh, 
nor  pious,  as  Herbert,  nor  philosophical,  as 
Shakespeare,  but  he  is  the  child  of  the  English 
muse,  that  child  which  is  the  father  of  the  man. 
The  charm  of  his  poetry  consists  often  only  in 
an  exceeding  naturalness,  perfect  sincerity,  with 
the  behavior  of  a  child  rather  than  of  a  man. 

Gentleness  and  delicacy  of  character  are 
everywhere  apparent  in  his  verse.  The  simplest 
and  humblest  words  come  readily  to  his  lips. 
No  one  can  read  the  Prioress's  tale,  understand 
ing  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  written,  and  in 
which  the  child  sings  0  alma  redemptoris 
mater )  or  the  account  of  the  departure  of  Con 
stance  with  her  child  upon  the  sea,  in  the  Man 
of  Lawe's  tale,  without  feeling  the  native  inno 
cence  and  refinement  of  the  author.  Nor  can 
we  be  mistaken  respecting  the  essential  purity 


492  A   WEEK 

of  his  character,  disregarding  the  apology  of 
the  manners  of  the  age.  A  simple  pathos  and 
feminine  gentleness,  which  Wordsworth  only 
occasionally  approaches,  but  does  not  equal,  are 
peculiar  to  him.  We  are  tempted  to  say  that 
his  genius  was  feminine,  not  masculine.  It  was 
such  a  feminineness,  however,  as  is  rarest  to 
find  in  woman,  though  not  the  appreciation  of 
it;  perhaps  it  is  not  to  be  found  at  all  in 
woman,  but  is  only  the  feminine  in  man. 

Such  pure  and  genuine  and  childlike  love  of 
Nature  is  hardly  to  be  found  in  any  poet. 
-—  Chaucer's  remarkably  trustful  and  affection 
ate  character  appears  in  his  familiar,  yet  inno 
cent  and  reverent,  manner  of  speaking  of  his 
God.  He  comes  into  his  thought  without  any 
false  reverence,  and  with  no  more  parade  than 
the  zephyr  to  his  ear.  If  Nature  is  our  mo 
ther,  then  God  is  our  father.  There  is  less  love 
and  simple,  practical  trust  in  Shakespeare  and 
Milton.  How  rarely  in  our  English  tongue  do 
we  find  expressed  any  affection  for  God.  Cer 
tainly,  there  is  no  sentiment  so  rare  as  the  love 
of  God.  Herbert  almost  alone  expresses  it, 
"Ah,  my  dear  God!"  Our  poet  uses  similar 
words  with  propriety;  and  whenever  he  sees  a 
beautiful  person,  or  other  object,  prides  himself 
on  the  "maistry  "  of  his  God.  He  even  recom 
mends  Dido  to  be  his  bride,  — 


FRIDAY  493 

"  If  that  God  that  heaven  and  yearth  made, 
Would  have  a  love  for  beauty  and  goodnesse, 
And  womanhede,  trouth,  and  semeliness." 

But  in  justification  of  our  praise,  we  must 
refer  to  his  works  themselves;  to  the  Prologue 
to  the  Canterbury  Tales,  the  account  of  Genti- 
lesse,  the  Flower  and  the  Leaf,  the  stories  of 
Griselda,  Virginia,  Ariadne,  and  Blanche  the 
Duchesse,  and  much  more  of  less  distinguished 
merit.  There  are  many  poets  of  more  taste, 
and  better  manners,  who  knew  how  to  leave  out 
their  dullness;  but  such  negative  genius  cannot 
detain  us  long ;  we  shall  return  to  Chaucer  still 
with  love.  Some  natures,  which  are  really 
rude  and  ill-developed,  have  yet  a  higher  stand 
ard  of  perfection  than  others  which  are  refined 
and  well  balanced.  Even  the  clown  has  taste, 
whose  dictates,  though  he  disregards  them,  are 
higher  and  purer  than  those  which  the  artist 
obeys.  If  we  have  to  wander  through  many 
dull  and  prosaic  passages  in  Chaucer,  we  have 
at  least  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  it  is 
not  an  artificial  dullness,  but  too  easily  matched 
by  many  passages  in  life.  We  confess  that 
we  feel  a  disposition  commonly  to  concentrate 
sweets,  and  accumulate  pleasures ;  but  the  poet 
may  be  presumed  always  to  speak  as  a  traveler, 
who  leads  us  through  a  varied  scenery,  from  one 
eminence  to  another,  and  it  is,  perhaps,  more 


494  A   WEEK 

pleasing,  after  all,  to  meet  with  a  fine  thought 
in  its  natural  setting.  Surely  fate  has  en 
shrined  it  in  these  circumstances  for  some  end. 
Nature  strews  her  nuts  and  flowers  broadcast, 
and  never  collects  them  into  heaps.  This  was 
the  soil  it  grew  in,  and  this  the  hour  it  bloomed 
in;  if  sun,  wind,  and  rain  came  here  to  cherish 
and  expand  the  flower,  shall  not  we  come  here 
to  pluck  it? 

A  true  poem  is  distinguished  not  so  much  by 
a  felicitous  expression,  or  any  thought  it  sug 
gests,  as  by  the  atmosphere  which  surrounds  it. 
Most  have  beauty  of  outline  merely,  and  are 
striking  as  the  form  and  bearing  of  a  stranger ; 
but  true  verses  come  toward  us  indistinctly,  as 
the  very  breath  of  all  friendliness,  and  envelop 
us  in  their  spirit  and  fragrance.  Much  of 
our  poetry  has  the  very  best  manners,  but  no 
character.  It  is  only  an  unusual  precision  and 
elasticity  of  speech,  as  if  its  author  had  taken, 
not  an  intoxicating  draught,  but  an  electuary. 
It  has  the  distinct  outline  of  sculpture,  and 
chronicles  an  early  hour.  Under  the  influence 
of  passion  all  men  speak  thus  distinctly,  but 
wrath  is  not  always  divine. 

There  are  two  classes  of  men  called  poets. 
The  one  cultivates  life,  the  other  art,  —  one 
seeks  food  for  nutriment,  the  other  for  flavor* 


FRIDAY  495 

one  satisfies  hunger,  the  other  gratifies  the 
palate.  There  are  two  kinds  of  writing,  both 
great  and  rare;  one  that  of  genius,  or  the  in 
spired,  the  other  of  intellect  and  taste,  in  the 
intervals  of  inspiration.  The  former  is  above 
criticism,  always  correct,  giving  the  law  to  crit 
icism.  It  vibrates  and  pulsates  with  life  for 
ever.  It  is  sacred,  and  to  be  read  with  rever 
ence,  as  the  works  of  nature  are  studied.  There 
are  few  instances  of  a  sustained  style  of  this 
kind;  perhaps  every  man  has  spoken  words,  but 
the  speaker  is  then  careless  of  the  record.  Such 
a  style  removes  us  out  of  personal  relations  with 
its  author;  we  do  not  take  his  words  on  our 
lips,  but  his  sense  into  our  hearts.  It  is  the 
stream  of  inspiration,  which  bubbles  out,  now 
here,  now  there,  now  in  this  man,  now  in  that. 
It  matters  not  through  what  ice-crystals  it  is 
seen,  now  a  fountain,  now  the  ocean  stream  run 
ning  underground.  It  is  in  Shakespeare,  Al- 
pheus,  in  Burns,  Arethuse ;  but  ever  the  same. 
The  other  is  self-possessed  and  wise.  It  is  rev 
erent  of  genius,  and  greedy  of  inspiration.  It 
is  conscious  in  the  highest  and  the  least  degree. 
It  consists  with  the  most  perfect  command  of 
the  faculties.  It  dwells  in  a  repose  as  of  the 
desert,  and  objects  are  as  distinct  in  it  as  oases 
or  palms  in  the  horizon  of  sand.  The  train  of 
thought  moves  with  subdued  and  measured  step, 


496  A   WEEK 

like  a  caravan.  But  the  pen  is  only  an  instru 
ment  in  its  hand,  and  not  instinct  with  life,  like 
a  longer  arm.  It  leaves  a  thin  varnish  or  glaze 
over  all  its  work.  The  works  of  Goethe  furnish 
remarkable  instances  of  the  latter. 

There  is  no  just  and  serene  criticism  as  yet. 
Nothing  is  considered  simply  as  it  lies  in  the 
lap  of  eternal  beauty,  but  our  thoughts,  as  well 
as  our  bodies,  must  be  dressed  after  the  latest 
fashions.  Our  taste  is  too  delicate  and  partic 
ular.  It  says  nay  to  the  poet's  work,  but  never 
yea  to  his  hope.  It  invites  him  to  adorn  his 
deformities,  and  not  to  cast  them  off  by  expan 
sion,  as  the  tree  its  bark.  We  are  a  people 
who  live  in  a  bright  light,  in  houses  of  pearl 
and  porcelain,  and  drink  only  light  wines,  whose 
teeth  are  easily  set  on  edge  by  the  least  natural 
sour.  If  we  had  been  consulted,  the  backbone 
of  the  earth  would  have  been  made,  not  of  gran 
ite,  but  of  Bristol  spar.  A  modern  author 
would  have  died  in  infancy  in  a  ruder  age. 
But  the  poet  is  something  m<?re  than  a  scald, 
"a  smoother  and  polisher  of  language;"  he  is 
a  Cincinnatus  in  literature,  and  occupies  no 
west  end  of  the  world.  Like  the  sun,  he  will 
indifferently  select  his  rhymes,  and  with  a  lib 
eral  taste  weave  into  his  verse  the  planet  and 
the  stubble. 

In  these  old  books  the  stucco  has  long  since 


FRIDAY  497 

crumbled  away,  and  we  read  what  was  sculp 
tured  in  the  granite.  They  are  rude  and  mas 
sive  in  their  proportions,  rather  than  smooth 
and  delicate  in  their  finish.  The  workers  in 
stone  polish  only  their  chimney  ornaments,  but 
their  pyramids  are  roughly  done.  There  is  a 
soberness  in  a  rough  aspect,  as  of  unhewn 
granite,  which  addresses  a  depth  in  us,  but  a 
polished  surface  hits  only  the  ball  of  the  eye. 
The  true  finish  is  the  work  of  time,  and  the  use 
to  which  a  thing  is  put.  The  elements  are  still 
polishing  the  pyramids.  Art  may  varnish  and 
gild,  but  it  can  do  no  more.  A  work  of  genius 
is  rough-hewn  from  the  first,  because  it  antici 
pates  the  lapse  of  time,  and  has  an  ingrained 
polish,  which  still  appears  when  fragments  are 
broken  off,  an  essential  quality  of  its  substance. 
Its  beauty  is  at  the  same  time  its  strength,  and 
it  breaks  with  a  lustre. 

The  great  poem  must  have  the  stamp  of 
greatness  as  well  as  its  essence.  The  reader 
easily  goes  within  the  shallowest  contemporary 
poetry,  and  informs  it  with  all  the  life  and 
promise  of  the  day,  as  the  pilgrim  goes  within 
the  temple,  arid  hears  the  faintest  strains  of  the 
worshipers ;  but  it  will  have  to  speak  to  poster 
ity,  traversing  these  deserts,  through  the  ruins 
of  its  outmost  walls,  by  the  grandeur  and 
beauty  of  its  proportions. 


498  A  WEEK 

But  here  on  the  stream  of  the  Concord,  where 
we  have  all  the  while  been  bodily,  Nature,  who 
is  superior  to  all  styles  and  ages,  is  now,  with 
pensive  face,  composing  her  poem  Autumn, 
with  which  no  work  of  man  will  bear  to  be  com 
pared. 

In  summer  we  live  out  of  doors,  and  have 
only  impulses  and  feelings,  which  are  all  for 
action,  and  must  wait  commonly  for  the  still 
ness  and  longer  nights  of  autumn  and  winter 
before  any  thought  will  subside ;  we  are  sensible 
that  behind  the  rustling  leaves,  and  the  stacks 
of  grain,  and  the  bare  clusters  of  the  grape, 
there  is  the  field  of  a  wholly  new  life,  which  no 
man  has  lived ;  that  even  this  earth  was  made 
for  more  mysterious  and  nobler  inhabitants 
than  men  and  women.  In  the  hues  of  October 
sunsets,  we  see  the  portals  to  other  mansions 
than  those  which  we  occupy,  not  far  off  geo 
graphically,  — 

"  There  is  a  place  beyond  that  flaming  hill, 

From  whence  the  stars  their  thin  appearance  shed^ 
A  place  beyond  all  place,  where  never  ill, 
Nor  impure  thought  was  ever  harbored." 

Sometimes  a  mortal  feels  in  himself  Nature, 
not  his  Father  but  his  Mother  stirs  within  him, 
and  he  becomes  immortal  with  her  immortality. 
From  time  to  time  she  claims  kindredship  with 
us,  and  some  globule  from  her  veins  steals  up 
into  our  own. 


FRIDAY  499 

I  am  the  autumnal  sun, 
With  autumn  gales  my  race  is  run ; 
When  will  the  hazel  put  forth  its  flowers, 
Or  the  grape  ripen  under  my  bowers  ? 
When  will  the  harvest  or  the  hunter's  moon 
Turn  my  midnight  into  mid-noon  ? 

I  am  all  sere  and  yellow, 

And  to  my  core  mellow. 
The  mast  is  dropping  within  my  woods, 
The  winter  is  lurking  within  my  moods, 
And  the  rustling  of  the  withered  leaf 
Is  the  constant  music  of  my  grief. 

To  an  unskillful  rhymer  the  Muse  thus  spoke 
in  prose :  — 

The  moon  no  longer  reflects  the  day,  but  rises 
to  her  absolute  rule,  and  the  husbandman  and 
hunter  acknowledge  her  for  their  mistress. 
Asters  and  golden -rods  reign  along  the  way,  and 
the  life-everlasting  withers  not.  The  fields  are 
reaped  and  shorn  of  their  pride,  but  an  inward 
verdure  still  crowns  them.  The  thistle  scatters 
its  down  on  the  pool,  and  yellow  leaves  clothe 
the  vine,  and  naught  disturbs  the  serious  life  of 
men.  But  behind  the  sheaves,  and  under  the 
sod,  there  lurks  a  ripe  fruit,  which  the  reapers 
have  not  gathered,  the  true  harvest  of  the  year, 
which  it  bears  forever,  annually  watering  and 
maturing  it,  and  man  never  severs  the  stalk 
which  bears  this  palatable  fruit. 


600  A   WEEK 

Men  nowhere,  east  or  west,  live  yet  a  natural 
life,  round  which  the  vine  clings,  and  which  the 
elm  willingly  shadows.  Man  would  desecrate 
it  by  his  touch,  and  so  the  beauty  of  the  world 
remains  veiled  to  him.  He  needs  not  only  to 
be  spiritualized,  but  naturalized,  on  the  soil  of 
earth.  Who  shall  conceive  what  kind  of  roof 
the  heavens  might  extend  over  him,  what  sea 
sons  minister  to  him,  and  what  employment 
dignify  his  life!  Only  the  convalescent  raise 
the  veil  of  nature.  An  immortality  in  his  life 
would  confer  immortality  on  his  abode.  The 
winds  should  be  his  breath,  the  seasons  his 
moods,  and  he  should  impart  of  his  serenity  to 
Nature  herself.  But  such  as  we  know  him  he 
is  ephemeral  like  the  scenery  which  surrounds 
him,  and  does  not  aspire  to  an  enduring  exist 
ence.  When  we  come  down  into  the  distant 
village,  visible  from  the  mountain-top,  the  no 
bler  inhabitants  with  whom  we  peopled  it  have 
departed,  and  left  only  vermin  in  its  desolate 
streets.  It  is  the  imagination  of  poets  which 
puts  those  brave  speeches  into  the  mouths  of 
their  heroes.  They  may  feign  that  Cato's  last 
words  were 

"  The  earth,  the  air,  and  seas  I  know,  and  all 
The  joys  and  horrors  of  their  peace  and  wars , 
And  now  will  view  the  Gods'  state  and  the  stars," 

but  such  are  not  the  thoughts  nor  the  destiny 


FRIDAY  501 

of  common  men.  What  is  this  heaven  which 
they  expect,  if  it  is  no  better  than  they  expect? 
Are  they  prepared  for  a  better  than  they  can 
now  imagine?  Where  is  the  heaven  of  him 
who  dies  on  a  stage,  in  a  theatre?  Here  or 
nowhere  is  our  heaven. 

"Although  we  see  celestial  bodies  move 
Above  the  earth,  the  earth  we  till  and  love." 

We  can  conceive  of  nothing  more  fair  than 
something  which  we  have  experienced.  "The 
remembrance  of  youth  is  a  sigh."  We  linger 
in  manhood  to  tell  the  dreams  of  our  childhood, 
and  they  are  half  forgotten  ere  we  have  learned 
the  language.  We  have  need  to  be  earth-born 
as  well  as  heaven -born,  y^yems,  as  was  said  of 
the  Titans  of  old,  or  in  a  better  sense  than  they. 
There  have  been  heroes  for  whom  this  world 
seemed  expressly  prepared,  as  if  creation  had 
at  last  succeeded ;  whose  daily  life  was  the  stuff 
of  which  our  dreams  are  made,  and  whose 
presence  enhanced  the  beauty  and  ampleness 
of  Nature  herself.  Where  they  walked,  — 

"  Largior  hie  campos  aether  et  luniine  vestit 
Purpureo  :  Solemque  suum,  sua  sidera  norunt." 

"  Here  a  more  copious  air  invests  the  fields,  and 
clothes  with  purple  light;  and  they  know  their 
own  sun  and  their  own  stars."  We  love  to 
hear  some  men  speak,  though  we  hear  not  what 
they  say ;  the  very  air  they  breathe  is  rich  and 


502  A  WEEK 

perfumed,  and  the  sound  of  their  voices  falls  on 
the  ear  like  the  rustling  of  leaves  or  the  crack 
ling  of  the  fire.  They  stand  many  deep.  They 
have  the  heavens  for  their  abettors,  as  those 
who  have  never  stood  from  under  them,  and 
they  look  at  the  stars  with  an  answering  ray. 
Their  eyes  are  like  glow-worms,  and  their  mo 
tions  graceful  and  flowing,  as  if  a  place  were 
already  found  for  them,  like  rivers  flowing 
through  valleys.  The  distinctions  of  morality, 
of  right  and  wrong,  sense  and  nonsense,  are 
petty,  and  have  lost  their  significance,  beside 
these  pure  primeval  natures.  When  I  consider 
the  clouds  stretched  in  stupendous  masses  across 
the  sky,  frowning  with  darkness  or  glowing 
with  downy  light,  or  gilded  with  the  rays  of  the 
setting  sun,  like  the  battlements  of  a  city  in  the 
heavens,  their  grandeur  appears  thrown  away 
on  the  meanness  of  my  employment;  the  dra 
pery  is  altogether  too  rich  for  such  poor  acting. 
I  am  hardly  worthy  to  be  a  suburban  dweller 
outside  those  walls. 

"  Unless  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man !  " 

With  our  music  we  would  fain  challenge 
transiently  another  and  finer  sort  of  intercourse 
than  our  daily  toil  permits.  The  strains  come 
back  to  us  amended  in  the  echo,  as  when  a 
friend  reads  our  verse.  Why  have  they  so 


FRIDAY  503 

painted  the  fruits,  and  freighted  them  with 
such  fragrance  as  to  satisfy  a  more  than  animal 
appetite? 

"  I  asked  the  schoolman,  his  advice  was  free, 
But  scored  me  out  too  intricate  a  way." 

These  things  imply,  perchance,  that  we  live  on 
the  verge  of  another  and  purer  realm,  from 
which  these  odors  and  sounds  are  wafted  over 
to  us.  The  borders  of  our  plot  are  set  with 
flowers,  whose  seeds  were  blown  from  more 
Elysian  fields  adjacent.  They  are  the  pot-herbs 
of  the  gods.  Some  fairer  fruits  and  sweeter 
fragrances  wafted  over  to  us  betray  another 
realm's  vicinity.  There,  too,  does  Echo  dwell, 
and  there  is  the  abutment  of  the  rainbow's  arch. 

A  finer  race  and  finer  fed 
Feast  and  revel  o'er  our  head, 
And  we  titmen  are  only  able 
To  catch  the  fragments  from  their  table. 
Theirs  is  the  fragrance  of  the  fruits, 
While  we  consume  the  pulp  and  roots. 
What  are  the  moments  that  we  stand 
Astonished  on  the  Olympian  land ! 

We  need  pray  for  no  higher  heaven  than  the 
pure  senses  can  furnish,  a  purely  sensuous  life. 
Our  present  senses  are  but  the  rudiments  of 
what  they  are  destined  to  become.  We  are 
comparatively  deaf  and  dumb  and  blind,  and 
without  smell  or  taste  or  feeling.  Every  gener 
ation  makes  the  discovery  that  its  divine  vigor 


504  A   WEEK 

has  been  dissipated,  and  each  sense  and  faculty 
misapplied  and  debauched.  The  ears  were 
made,  not  for  such  trivial  uses  as  men  are  wont 
to  suppose,  but  to  hear  celestial  sounds.  The 
eyes  were  not  made  for  such  groveling  uses  as 
they  are  now  put  to  and  worn  out  by,  but  to 
behold  beauty  now  invisible.  May  we  not  see 
God  ?  Are  we  to  be  put  off  and  amused  in  this 
life,  as  it  were  with  a  mere  allegory?  Is  not 
Nature,  rightly  read,  that  of  which  she  is  com 
monly  taken  to  be  the  symbol  merely  ?  When 
the  common  man  looks  into  the  sky,  which  he 
has  not  so  much  profaned,  he  thinks  it  less  gross 
than  the  earth,  and  with  reverence  speaks  of 
"the  Heavens,'*  but  the  seer  will  in  the  same 
sense  speak  of  "the  Earths,"  and  his  Father 
who  is  in  them.  "Did  not  he  that  made  that 
which  is  within  make  that  which  is  without 
also?"  What  is  it,  then,  to  educate  but  to 
develop  these  divine  germs  called  the  senses? 
for  individuals  and  states  to  deal  magnani 
mously  with  the  rising  generation,  leading  it 
not  into  temptation, — not  teach  the  eye  to 
squint,  nor  attune  the  ear  to  profanity.  But 
where  is  the  instructed  teacher?  Where  are 
the  normal  schools  ? 

A  Hindoo  sage  said,  "As  a  dancer,  having 
exhibited  herself  to  the  spectator,  desists  from 
the  dance,  so  does  Nature  desist,  having  mani- 


FRIDAY  505 

fested  herself  to  soul  — .  Nothing,  in  my  opin 
ion,  is  more  gentle  than  Nature ;  once  aware  of 
having  been  seen,  she  does  not  again  expose 
herself  to  the  gaze  of  soul." 

It  is  easier  to  discover  another  such  a  new 
world  as  Columbus  did,  than  to  go  within  one 
fold  of  this  which  we  appear  to  know  so  well ; 
the  land  is  lost  sight  of,  the  compass  varies, 
and  mankind  mutiny ;  and  still  history  accumu 
lates  like  rubbish  before  the  portals  of  nature. 
But  there  is  only  necessary  a  moment's  sanity 
and  sound  senses,  to  teach  us  that  there  is  a  na 
ture  behind  the  ordinary,  in  which  we  have  only 
some  vague  preemption  right  and  western  re 
serve  as  yet.  We  live  on  the  outskirts  of  that 
region.  Carved  wood,  and  floating  boughs, 
and  sunset  skies  are  all  that  we  know  of  it. 
We  are  not  to  be  imposed  on  by  the  longest 
spell  of  weather.  Let  us  not,  my  friends,  be 
wheedled  and  cheated  into  good  behavior  to 
earn  the  salt  of  our  eternal  porridge,  whoever 
they  are  that  attempt  it.  Let  us  wait  a  little, 
and  not  purchase  any  clearing  here,  trusting 
that  richer  bottoms  will  soon  be  put  up.  It  is 
but  thin  soil  where  we  stand;  I  have  felt  my 
roots  in  a  richer  ere  this.  I  have  seen  a  bunch 
of  violets  in  a  glass  vase,  tied  loosely  with  a 
straw,  which  reminded  me  of  myself. 


606  A  WEEK 

I  am  a  parcel  of  vain  strivings  tied 

By  a  chance  bond  together, 
Dangling  this  way  and  that,  their  links 
Were  made  so  loose  and  wide, 

Methinks, 
For  milder  weather. 

A  bunch  of  violets  without  their  roots, 

And  sorrel  intermixed, 
Encircled  by  a  wisp  of  straw 
Once  coiled  about  their  shoots, 

The  law 
By  which  I  'm  fixed. 

A  nosegay  which  Time  clutched  from  out 

Those  fair  Elysian  fields, 
With  weeds  and  broken  stems,  in  haste, 
Doth  make  the  rabble  rout 
That  waste 
The  day  he  yields. 

And  here  I  bloom  for  a  short  hour  unseen, 

Drinking  my  juices  up, 
With  no  root  in  the  land 
To  keep  my  branches  green, 

But  stand 
In  a  bare  cup. 

Some  tender  buds  were  left  upon  my  stem 

In  mimicry  of  life, 
But  ah !  the  children  will  not  know, 
Till  time  has  withered  them, 

The  woe 
With  which  they  're  rife. 

But  now  I  see  I  was  not  plucked  for  naught, 
And  after  in  life's  vase 


FRIDAY  507 

Of  glass  set  while  I  might  survive, 
But  by  a  kind  hand  brought 

Alive 
To  a  strange  place. 

That  stock  thus  thinned  will  soon  redeem  its  hours, 

And  by  another  year, 
Such  as  God  knows,  with  freer  air, 
More  fruits  and  fairer  flowers 

Will  bear, 
While  I  droop  here. 

This  world  has  many  rings,  like  Saturn,  and 
we  live  now  on  the  outmost  of  them  all.  None 
can  say  deliberately  that  he  inhabits  the  same 
sphere,  or  is  contemporary,  with  the  flower 
which  his  hands  have  plucked,  and  though  his 
feet  may  seem  to  crush  it,  inconceivable  spaces 
and  ages  separate  them,  and  perchance  there  is 
no  danger  that  he  will  hurt  it.  What  do  the 
botanists  know?  Our  lives  should  go  between 
the  lichen  and  the  bark.  The  eye  may  see  for 
the  hand,  but  not  for  the  mind.  We  are  still 
being  born,  and  have  as  yet  but  a  dim  vision  of 
sea  and  land,  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  and  shall 
not  see  clearly  till  after  nine  days  at  least. 
That  is  a  pathetic  inquiry  among  travelers  and 
geographers  after  the  site  of  ancient  Troy.  It 
is  not  near  where  they  think  it  is.  When  a 
thing  is  decayed  and  gone,  how  indistinct  must 
be  the  place  it  occupied ! 

The  anecdotes  of  modern  astronomy  affect  me 


508  A  WEEK 

in  the  same  way  as  do  those  faint  revelations 
of  the  Real  which  are  vouchsafed  to  men  from 
time  to  time,  or  rather  from  eternity  to  eternity. 
When  I  remember  the  history  of  that  faint 
light  in  our  firmament  which  we  call  Venus, 
which  ancient  men  regarded,  and  which  most 
modern  men  still  regard,  as  a  bright  spark  at 
tached  to  a  hollow  sphere  revolving  about  our 
earth,  but  which  we  have  discovered  to  be  an 
other  world,  in  itself,  —  how  Copernicus,  rea 
soning  long  and  patiently  about  the  matter,  pre 
dicted  confidently  concerning  it,  before  yet  the 
telescope  had  been  invented,  that  if  ever  men 
came  to  see  it  more  clearly  than  they  did  then, 
they  would  discover  that  it  had  phases  like  our 
moon,  and  that  within  a  century  after  his  death 
the  telescope  was  invented,  and  that  prediction 
verified,  by  Galileo,  —  I  am  not  without  hope 
that  we  may,  even  here  and  now,  obtain  some 
accurate  information  concerning  that  OTHER 
WORLD  which  the  instinct  of  mankind  has  so 
long  predicted.  Indeed,  all  that  we  call  science, 
as  well  as  all  that  we  call  poetry,  is  a  particle 
of  such  information,  accurate  as  far  as  it  goes, 
though  it  be  but  to  the  confines  of  the  truth. 
If  we  can  reason  so  accurately,  and  with  such 
wonderful  confirmation  of  our  reasoning,  re 
specting  so-called  material  objects  and  events 
infinitely  removed  beyond  the  range  of  our  nat- 


FRIDAY  509 

nral  vision,  so  that  the  mind  hesitates  to  trust 
its  calculations  even  when  they  are  confirmed 
by  observation,  why  may  not  our  speculations 
penetrate  as  far  into  the  immaterial  starry 
system,  of  which  the  former  is  but  the  out 
ward  and  visible  type?  Surely,  we  are  pro 
vided  with  senses  as  well  fitted  to  penetrate  the 
spaces  of  the  real,  the  substantial,  the  eternal, 
as  these  outward  are  to  penetrate  the  material 
universe.  Veias,  Menu,  Zoroaster,  Socrates, 
Christ,  Shakespeare,  Swedenborg,  —  these  are 
some  of  our  astronomers. 

There  are  perturbations  in  our  orbits  pro 
duced  by  the  influence  of  outlying  spheres,  and 
no  astronomer  has  ever  yet  calculated  the  ele 
ments  of  that  undiscovered  world  which  pro 
duces  them.  I  perceive  in  the  common  train 
of  my  thoughts  a  natural  and  uninterrupted 
sequence,  each  implying  the  next,  or,  if  inter 
ruption  occurs,  it  is  occasioned  by  a  new  object 
being  presented  to  my  senses.  But  a  steep, 
and  sudden,  and  by  these  means  unaccountable 
transition  is  that  from  a  comparatively  narrow 
and  partial,  what  is  called  common -sense  view 
of  things,  to  an  infinitely  expanded  and  liberat 
ing  one,  from  seeing  things  as  men  describe 
them,  to  seeing  them  as  men  cannot  describe 
them.  This  implies  a  sense  which  is  not  com 
mon,  but  rare  in  the  wisest  man's  experience; 


510  A  WEEK 

which    is    sensible   or  sentient  of   more  than 
common. 

In  what  inclosures  does  the  astronomer  loiter ! 
His  skies  are  shoal,  and  imagination,  like  a 
thirsty  traveler,  pants  to  be  through  their  des 
ert.  The  roving  mind  impatiently  bursts  the 
fetters  of  astronomical  orbits,  like  cobwebs  in 
a  corner  of  its  universe,  and  launches  itself  to 
where  distance  fails  to  follow,  and  law,  such  as 
science  has  discovered,  grows  weak  and  weary. 
The  mind  knows  a  distance  and  a  space  of  which 
all  those  sums  combined  do  not  make  a  unit 
of  measure,  —  the  interval  between  that  which 
appears  and  that  which  is.  I  know  that  there 
are  many  stars,  I  know  that  they  are  far  enough 
off,  bright  enough,  steady  enough  in  their  or 
bits,  —  but  what  are  they  all  worth  ?  They 
are  more  waste  land  in  the  West,  —  star  ter 
ritory,  —  to  be  made  slave  States,  perchance, 
if  we  colonize  them.  I  have  interest  but  for 
six  feet  of  star,  and  that  interest  is  transient. 
Then  farewell  to  all  ye  bodies,  such  as  I  have 
known  ye. 

Every  man,  if  he  is  wise,  will  stand  on  such 
bottom  as  will  sustain  him,  and  if  one  gravi 
tates  downward  more  strongly  than  another,  he 
will  not  venture  on  those  meads  where  the  lat 
ter  walks  securely,  but  rather  leave  the  cran- 


FRIDAY  511 

berries  which  grow  there  unraked  by  himself. 
Perchance,  some  spring,  a  higher  freshet  will 
float  them  within  his  reach,  though  they  may 
be  watery  and  frost-bitten  by  that  time.  Such 
shriveled  berries  I  have  seen  in  many  a  poor 
man's  garret,  ay,  in  many  a  church-bin  and 
state-coffer,  and  with  a  little  water  and  heat 
they  swell  again  to  their  original  size  and  fair 
ness,  and  added  sugar  enough,  stead  mankind 
for  sauce  to  this  world's  dish. 

What  is  called  common  sense  is  excellent  in 
its  department,  and  as  invaluable  as  the  virtue 
of  conformity  in  the  army  and  navy,  —  for  there 
must  be  subordination,  —  but  uncommon  sense, 
that  sense  which  is  common  only  to  the  wisest, 
is  as  much  more  excellent  as  it  is  more  rare. 
Some  aspire  to  excellence  in  the  subordinate 
department,  and  may  God  speed  them.  What 
Fuller  says  of  masters  of  colleges  is  universally 
applicable,  that  "a  little  alloy  of  dullness  in  a 
master  of  a  college  makes  him  fitter  to  manage 
secular  affairs.'* 

"  He  that  wants  faith,  and  apprehends  a,  grief 
Because  he  wants  it,  hath  a  true  belief  ; 
And  he  that  grieves  because  his  grief  's  so  small, 
Has  a  true  grief,  and  the  best  Faith  of  all." 

Or  be  encouraged  by  this  other  poet's  strain,  — « 

11  By  them  went  Fido,  marshal  of  the  field : 

Weak  wag  his  mother  when  she  gave  him  day ; 


512  A  WEEK 

And  he  at  first  a  sick  and  weakly  child, 

As  e'er  with  tears  welcomed  the  sunny  ray  ; 

Yet  when  more  years  afford  more  growth  and  mighty 
A  champion  stout  he  was,  and  puissant  knight, 
As  ever  came  in  field,  or  shone  in  armor  bright. 

"  Mountains  he  flings  in  seas  with  mighty  hand ; 

Stops  and  turns  back  the  sun's  impetuous  course, 
Nature  breaks  Nature's  laws  at  his  command ; 
No  force  of  Hell  or  Heaven  withstands  his  force  ; 
Events  to  come  yet  many  ages  hence, 
He  present  makes,  by  wondrous  prescience ; 
Proving  the  senses  blind  by  being  blind  to  sense." 

"Yesterday,  at  dawn,"  says  Hafiz,  "God  deliv 
ered  me  from  all  worldly  affliction;  and  amidst 
the  gloom  of  night  presented  me  with  the  water 
of  immortality." 

In  the  life  of  Sadi  by  Dowlat  Shah  occurs 
this  sentence:  "The  eagle  of  the  immaterial 
soul  of  Shaikh  Sadi  shook  from  his  plumage  the 
dust  of  his  body." 

Thus  thoughtfully  we  were  rowing  homeward 
to  find  some  autumnal  work  to  do,  and  help  on 
the  revolution  of  the  seasons.  Perhaps  Nature 
would  condescend  to  make  use  of  us  even  with 
out  our  knowledge,  as  when  we  help  to  scatter 
her  seeds  in  our  walks,  and  carry  burrs  and 
cockles  on  our  clothes  from  field  to  field. 

All  things  are  current  found 
On  earthly  ground, 


FRIDAY  513 

Spirits  and  elements 
Have  their  descents. 

Night  and  day,  year  on  year, 
High  and  low,  far  and  near, 
These  are  our  own  aspects, 
These  are  our  own  regrets. 

Ye  gods  of  the  shore, 
Who  abide  evermore, 
I  see  your  far  headland, 
Stretching  on  either  hand ; 

I  hear  the  sweet  evening  sounds 
From  your  undecaying  grounds ; 
Cheat  me  no  more  with  time, 
Take  me  to  your  clime. 

As  it  grew  later  in  the  afternoon,  and  we 
rowed  leisurely  up  the  gentle  stream,  shut  in 
between  fragrant  and  blooming  banks,  where 
we  had  first  pitched  our  tent,  and  drew  nearer 
to  the  fields  where  our  lives  had  passed,  we 
seemed  to  detect  the  hues  of  our  native  sky  in 
the  southwest  horizon.  The  sun  was  just  set 
ting  behind  the  edge  of  a  wooded  hill,  so  rich  a 
sunset  as  would  never  have  ended  but  for  some 
reason  unknown  to  men,  and  to  be  marked  with 
brighter  colors  than  ordinary  in  the  scroll  of 
time.  Though  the  shadows  of  the  hills  were 
beginning  to  steal  over  the  stream,  the  whole 
river  valley  undulated  with  mild  light,  purer 
and  more  memorable  than  the  noon.  For  so 
day  bids  farewell  even  to  solitary  vales  unin- 


514  A  WEEK 

habited  by  man.  Two  herons  (Ardea,  herodias), 
with  their  long  and  slender  limbs  relieved 
against  the  sky,  were  seen  traveling  high  over 
our  heads,  —  their  lofty  and  silent  flight,  as 
they  were  wending  their  way  at  evening,  surely 
not  to  alight  in  any  marsh  on  the  earth's  sur 
face,  but,  perchance,  on  the  other  side  of  our 
atmosphere,  a  symbol  for  the  ages  to  study, 
whether  impressed  upon  the  sky,  or  sculptured 
amid  the  hieroglyphics  of  Egypt.  Bound  to 
some  northern  meadow,  they  held  on  their 
stately,  stationary  flight,  like  tbe  storks  in  the 
picture,  and  disappeared  at  length  behind  the 
clouds.  Dense  flocks  of  blackbirds  were  wing 
ing  their  way  along  the  river's  course,  as  if  on 
a  short  evening  pilgrimage  to  some  shrine  of 
theirs,  or  to  celebrate  so  fair  a  sunset. 

"  Therefore,  as  doth  the  pilgrim,  whom  the  night 

Hastes  darkly  to  imprison  on  his  way, 
Think  on  thy  home,  my  soul,  and  think  aright 
Of  what 's  yet  left  thee  of  life's  wasting  day : 
Thy  sun  posts  westward,  passed  is  thy  morn, 
And  twice  it  is  not  given  thee  to  be  born." 

The  sun-setting  presumed  all  men  at  leisure, 
and  in  a  contemplative  mood;  but  the  farmer's 
boy  only  whistled  the  more  thoughtfully  as  he 
drove  his  cows  home  from  pasture,  and  the 
teamster  refrained  from  cracking  his  whip,  and 
guided  his  team  with  a  subdued  voice.  The 
last  vestiges  of  daylight  at  length  disappeared, 


FRIDAY  515 

and  as  we  rowed  silently  along  with  our  backs 
toward  home  through  the  darkness,  only  a  few 
stars  being  visible,  we  had  little  to  say,  but  sat 
absorbed  in  thought,  or  in  silence  listened  to 
the  monotonous  sound  of  our  oars,  a  sort  of  ru- 
dimental  music,  suitable  for  the  ear  of  Night 
and  the  acoustics  of  her  dimly  lighted  halls ; 

"  Pulsaa  re fe runt  ad  sidera  valles, 

and  the  valleys  echoed  the  sound  to  the  stars. 

As  we  looked  up  in  silence  to  those  distant 
lights,  we  were  reminded  that  it  was  a  rare  im 
agination  which  first  taught  that  the  stars  are 
worlds,  and  had  conferred  a  great  benefit  on 
mankind.  It  is  recorded  in  the  Chronicle  of 
Bernaldez  that  in  Columbus' s  first  voyage  the 
natives  "pointed  towards  the  heavens,  making 
signs  that  they  believed  that  there  was  all  power 
and  holiness."  We  have  reason  to  be  grateful 
for  celestial  phenomena,  for  they  chiefly  answer 
to  the  ideal  in  man.  The  stars  are  distant  and 
unobtrusive,  but  bright  and  enduring  as  our 
fairest  and  most  memorable  experiences.  "Let 
the  immortal  depth  of  your  soul  lead  you,  but 
earnestly  extend  your  eyes  upwards." 

As  the  truest  society  approaches  always 
nearer  to  solitude,  so  the  most  excellent  speech 
finally  falls  into  Silence.  Silence  is  audible  to 


516  A   WEEK 

all  men,  at  all  times,  and  in  all  places.  She 
is  when  we  hear  inwardly,  sound  when  we  hear 
outwardly.  Creation  has  not  displaced  her, 
but  is  her  visible  framework  and  foil.  All 
sounds  are  her  servants,  and  purveyors,  pro 
claiming  not  only  that  their  mistress  is,  but  is  a 
rare  mistress,  and  earnestly  to  be  sought  after. 
They  are  so  far  akin  to  Silence  that  they  are 
but  bubbles  on  her  surface,  which  straightway 
burst,  an  evidence  of  the  strength  and  prolific- 
ness  of  the  under-current ;  a  faint  utterance  of 
Silence,  and  then  only  agreeable  to  our  auditory 
nerves  when  they  contrast  themselves  with  and 
relieve  the  former.  In  proportion  as  they  do 
this,  and  are  heighteners  and  intensifiers  of  the 
Silence,  they  are  harmony  and  purest  melody. 

Silence  is  the  universal  refuge,  the  sequel  to 
all  dull  discourses  and  all  foolish  acts,  a  balm 
to  our  every  chagrin,  as  welcome  after  satiety 
as  after  disappointment ;  that  background  which 
the  painter  may  not  daub,  be  he  master  or  bun 
gler,  and  which,  however  awkward  a  figure  we 
may  have  made  in  the  foreground,  remains  ever 
our  inviolable  asylum,  where  no  indignity  can 
assail,  no  personality  disturb  us. 

The  orator  puts  off  his  individuality,  and  is 
then  most  eloquent  when  most  silent.  He  lis 
tens  while  he  speaks,  and  is  a  hearer  along  with 
his  audience.  Who  has  not  hearkened  to  her 


FRIDAY  517 

infinite  din?  She  is  Truth's  speaking-trumpet, 
the  sole  oracle,  the  true  Delphi  and  Dodona, 
which  kings  and  courtiers  would  do  well  to  con 
sult,  nor  will  they  be  balked  by  an  ambiguous 
answer.  For  through  her  all  revelations  have 
been  made,  and  just  in  proportion  as  men  have 
consulted  her  oracle  within,  they  have  obtained 
a  clear  insight,  and  their  age  has  been  marked 
as  an  enlightened  one.  But  as  often  as  they 
have  gone  gadding  abroad  to  a  strange  Delphi 
and  her  mad  priestess,  their  age  has  been  dark 
and  leaden.  Such  were  garrulous  and  noisy 
eras,  which  no  longer  yield  any  sound,  but  the 
Grecian  or  silent  and  melodious  era  is  ever 
sounding  and  resounding  in  the  ears  of  men. 

A  good  book  is  the  plectrum  with  which 
our  else  silent  lyres  are  struck.  We  not  un- 
frequently  refer  the  interest  which  belongs  to 
our  own  unwritten  sequel  to  the  written  and 
comparatively  lifeless  body  of  the  work.  Of 
all  books  this  sequel  is  the  most  indispensable 
part.  It  should  be  the  author's  aim  to  say  once 
and  emphatically,  "Jle  said,"  fyy.  This  is 
the  most  the  bookmaker  can  attain  to.  If  he 
make  his  volume  a  mole  whereon  the  waves  of 
Silence  may  break,  it  is  well. 

It  were  vain  for  me  to  endeavor  to  interpret 
the  Silence.  She  cannot  be  done  into  English. 
For  six  thousand  years  men  have  translated  her 


518  A  WEEK 

with  what  fidelity  belonged  to  each,  and  still 
she  is  little  better  than  a  sealed  book.  A  man 
may  run  on  confidently  for  a  time,  thinking  he 
has  her  under  his  thumb,  and  shall  one  day  ex 
haust  her,  but  he  too  must  at  last  be  silent,  and 
men  remark  only  how  brave  a  beginning  he 
made ;  for  when  he  at  length  dives  into  her,  so 
vast  is  the  disproportion  of  the  told  to  the  un 
told  that  the  former  will  seem  but  the  bubble 
on  the  surface  where  he  disappeared.  Never 
theless,  we  will  go  on,  like  those  Chinese  cliff 
swallows,  feathering  our  nests  with  the  froth 
which  may  one  day  be  bread  of  life  to  such  as 
dwell  by  the  seashore. 

We  had  made  about  fifty  miles  this  day  with 
sail  and  oar,  and  now,  far  in  the  evening,  our 
boat  was  grating  against  the  bulrushes  of  its 
native  port,  and  its  keel  recognized  the  Concord 
mud,  where  some  semblance  of  its  outline  was 
still  preserved  in  the  flattened  flags  which  had 
scarce  yet  erected  themselves  since  our  depar 
ture  ;  and  we  leaped  gladly  on  shore,  drawing  it 
up,  and  fastening  it  to  the  wild  apple-tree, 
whose  stem  still  bore  the  mark  which  its  chain 
had  worn  in  the  chafing  of  the  spring  freshets. 


TABLE    OF  POETICAL  QUOTATIONS 

USED  IX 

4  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCOED  AND  MERRIMACK  BITERS." 


PAOB 

2.  Fluminaque  obliquis  cinxit  declivia  ripis  (He  confined  the 

rivers).  —  OVID. 

3.  Beneath  low  hills,  in  the  broad  interval.  —  EMERSON. 
12.     And  thou  Simois,  that  as  an  arrowe,  clere. 

"      Sure  there  are  poets  which  did  never  dream. 
15.    Come,  come,  my  lovely  fair,  and  let  us  try.  —  FRANCIS 

QlJARLES. 

17.  Were  it  the  will  of  Heaven,  an  osier  bough,  —  PINDAR, 

tr.  by  Emerson. 

18.  By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood.  —  EMERSON. 
26.     —  renning  aie  downward  to  the  sea. 

43.  —  a  beggar  on  the  way. 

"  That  bold  adopts  each  house  he  views,  his  own. 

53.  The  river  calmly  flows.  —  W.  E.  CHANNING. 

66.  There  is  an  inward  voice  that  in  the  stream.  —  W.  E. 

CHANNINO. 

57.  Sweet  falls  the  summer  air.  —  W.  E.  CHANNINO. 

60.  A  man  that  looks  on  glass.  —  GEORGE  HERBERT. 

63.  Bedford,  most  noble  Bedford. 

70.  Some  nation  yet  shut  in.  —  WILLIAM  HABINQTON. 

71.  And  ladahel,  as  saith  the  boke.  —  JOHN  GOWER. 

"  Jason  first  sayled,  in  story  it  is  tolde.  —  JOHN  LYDGATB. 

79.  The  seventh  is  a  holy  day.  —  HESIOD. 

85.  Where  is  this  love  become  in  later  age. — FRANCIS  Qu  AKIJES. 

"  The  world  'a  a  popul  ir  disease,  that  reigns. 


520  POETICAL   QUOTATIONS 

85.  —  all  the  world  's  a  stage.  —  SHAKESPEARE. 

109.  Doth  grow  the  greater  still,  the  further  downe. 

115.  So  silent  is  the  cessile  air. 

116.  Jam  Iceto  turgent  inpalmite  gemmce.  —  VIRGIL. 

"       Strata  jacent  passim  sua  quceque  sub  arbore  poma.  — ViB- 

GIL. 

118.  As  from  the  clouds  appears  the  full  moon.  —  HOMER. 

"      While  it  was  dawn,  and  sacred  day  was  advancing. — 
HOMER 

119.  They,  thinking  great  things,  upon  the  neutral  ground 

of  war.  —  HOMER. 

"      Went  down  the  Idaean  mountains  to  far  Olympus.  — 
HOMER. 

120.  For  there  are  very  many.  —  HOMER. 

"       Then  rose  up  to  them  sweet-worded  Nestor,  the  shrill 
orator  of  the  Pylians.  —  HOMER. 

121.  Homer  is  gone  ;  and  where  is  Jove  ?  and  where. 

123.  You  grov'ling  worldlings,  you  whose  wisdom  trades. 

124.  Merchants,  arise.  —  FRANCIS  QUARLES. 

125.  To  Athens  gowned  he  goes,  and  from  that  school.  — > 

FRANCIS  QUARLES. 
What  I  have  learned  is  mine ;  I  've  had  my  thought. 

127.  —  ask  for  that  which  is  our  whole  life's  light. 
"      Let  us  set  so  just.  —  WILLIAM  HABINGTON. 

128.  Olympian  bards  who  sung.  —  EMERSON. 

129.  —  lips  of  cunning  fell.  —  EMERSON. 

130.  That  't  is  not  in  the  power  of  kings  to  raise.  —  SAMUEL 

DANIEL. 

And  that  the  utmost  powers  of  English  rhyme.  —  SAM 
UEL  DANIEL. 

"       And  who  in  time  knows  whither  we  may  vent.  —  SAMUEL 
DANIEL. 

131.  How  many  thousands  never  heard  the  name.  —  SAMUEL 

DANIEL. 

143.     Make  bandog  thy  scout  watch  to  bark  at  a  thief. 

151.     I  thynke  for  to  touche  also.  —  JOHN  GOWER. 

The  hye  sheryfe  of  Notynghame.  —  ROBIN  HOOD  BAL 
LADS. 


POETICAL   QUOTATIONS  521 

151.     His  shoote  it  was  but  loosely  shott.  —  ROBIN  HOOD 

BALLADS. 
"        Gazed  on  the  heavens  for  what  he  missed  on  earth.  — 

WILLIAM  BROWNE. 
to        All  courageous  knichtis. 

154.  He  and  his  valian*  soldiers  did  range  the  woods  full 

wide.  —  OLD  BALLAD  OF  LOVE  WELL'S  FIGHT. 
"        Of  all  our  valiant  English,  there  were  but  thirty-four.  — 
OLD  BALLAD  OF  LOVE  WELL'S  FIGHT. 

155.  And  braving  many  dangers  and  hardships  in  the  way.  — 

OLD  BALLAD  OF  LOVEWELL'S  FIGHT. 
"       A  man  he  was  of  comely  form. 
157.     For  as  we  are  informed,  so  thick  and  fast  they  fell.  — 

OLD  BALLAD  OF  LOVEWELL'S  FIGHT. 
160.    Yet  I  doubt  not  through  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose 

runs.  —  TENNYSON. 
165.    Men  find  that  action  is  another  thing.  —  SAMUEL  DANIEL. 

167.  And  round  about  good  morrows  fly.  —  CHARLES  COTTON. 

168.  The  early  pilgrim  blythe  he  hailed.  —  ROBIN  HOOD  BAL 

LADS. 

170.    Now  turn  again,  turn  again,  said  the  pinder.  —  OLD  BAL 
LAD. 
"       Virtues  as  rivers  pass. 

204.  Through  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into  the 

younger  day.  —  TENNYSON. 

205.  Fragments  of  the  lofty  strain.  —  GRAY. 

217.  They  carried  these  foresters  into  fair  Nottingham.  — 

ROBIN  HOOD  BALLADS. 

218.  Gentle  river,  gentle  river.  —  SPANISH  BALLAD  IN  PERCY  : 

"  Rio  verde,  rio  verde." 

219.  Then  did  the  crimson  streams  that  flowed. 

225.  When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night.  —  CAMPBELL. 

231.  Before  each  van.  —  MILTON. 

233.  On  either  side  the  river  lie.  —  TENNYSON. 

246.  Heaven  itself  shall  slide. 

247.  Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovereign  eye.  —  SHAKE 

SPEARE. 


522  POETICAL   QUOTATIONS 

247.  Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride. 

248.  How  may  a  worm  that  crawls  along  the  dust.  —  GILES 

FLETCHER. 
251.    And  now  the  taller  sons,  whom  Titan  warms.  —  GILES 

FLETCHER. 

266.     In  a  pleasant  glade.  —  SPENSER. 
272.     Amongst  the  pumy  stones,  which  seemed  to  plain. — 

SPENSER. 

"      His  reverend  locks.  —  BISHOP  PERCY. 
285.     Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure.  —  EMERSON. 
293.     Too  quick  resolves  do  resolution  wrong. 
295.     Nor  has  he  ceased  his  charming  song,  for  still  that  lyre.  — 

SIMONIDES. 

297.     The  young  and  tender  stalk. 
298-302.    Translations  from  Anacreon. 
809.    Man  is  man's  foe  and  destiny.  —  CHARLES  COTTON. 
321.    He  knew  of  our  haste.  —  PINDAR. 
"       —  springing  up  from  the  bottom.  —  PINDAR. 

The  island  sprang  from  the  watery.  —  PINDAR. 
328.     Rome  living  was  the  world's  sole  ornament.  —  SPENSER. 
330.    — -  bees  that  fly. 
851.     He  that  hath  love  and  judgment  too. 
352.     Why  love  among  the  virtues  is  not  known.  —  DR.  DONNE. 
357.     And  love  as  well  the  shepherd  can. 
362.     When  manhood  shall  be  matched  so. 
365.     There  be  mo  sterres  in  the  skie  than  a  pair.  —  CHAUCER. 
390.     Silver  sands  and  pebbles  sing. 
891.     Who  dreamt  devoutlier  than  most  use  to  pray.  —  DR. 

DONNE. 

392.  And,  more  to  lulle  him  in  his  slumber  soft.  —  SPENSER. 

393.  He  trode  the  unplanted  forest  floor,  whereon.  —  EMER 

SON. 

409-411.     Lines  from  Persius. 

414.    Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright.  —  GEORGE  HER 
BERT. 

417.  To  journey  for  his  marriage.  —  CHAUCER. 

418.  —  The  swaying  soft.  —  W.  E.  CHANNINO. 


POETICAL   QUOTATIONS  523 

421.    Not  only  o'er  the  dial's  face.  —  J.  MONTGOMERY. 
429.    Old  woman  that  lives  under  the  hill.  —  NURSERY  BAL 
LAD. 
432.    The  laws  of  Nature  break  the  rules  of  Art.  —  FRANCIS 

QUAKLES. 

441.  The  Boteman  strayt.  —  SPENSER. 

"  Summer's  robe  grows. —  DR.  DONNE. 

443.  And  now  the  cold  autumnal  dews  are  seen. 

444.  From  steep  pine-bearing  mountains  to  the  plain. — MAR 

LOWE. 

445.  Wise  Nature's  darlings,  they  live  in  the  world.  —  MAR 

LOWE. 
"      —  at  all,  Came  lovers  home  from  this  great  festival.  — 

MARLOWE. 

455-459.     Lines  from  Ossian. 
465.    And  what 's  a  life  ?    The  flourishing  array.  —  FRANCIS 

QUARLES. 

467.    I  see  the  golden-rod  shine  bright.  —  W.  E.  CHANNINQ. 

490.  For  first  the  thing  is  thought  within  the  hart.  —  CHAU 
CER. 

493.     If  that  God  that  heaven  and  yearth  made.  —  CHAUCER. 

498.  There  is  a  place  beyond  that  flaming  hill.  — SIR  WILLIAM 
DAVENANT. 

500.  The  earth,  the  air,  and  seas  I  know,  and  all. 

501.  Although  we  see  celestial  bodies  move. 

Largior  hie  campos  cether  et  lumine  vestit.  — VIRGIL. 

502.  Unless  above  himself  he  can.  —  SAMUEL  DANIEL. 

503.  I  asked  the  schoolman,  his  advice  was  free.  —  FRANCIS 

QUARLES. 

511.  He  that  wants  faith,  and  apprehends  a  grief.  —  FRAN 
CIS  QUARLES. 

"      By  them  went  Fido,  marshal  of  the  field.  —  PHINEAS 
FLETCHER. 

514.  Therefore,  as  doth  the  pilgrim,  whom  the  night.  —  GILES 

FLETCHER. 

515.  Pu/«e  referunt  ad  sidera  voiles.  —  VIRGIL. 


INDEX 


"  A  finer  race  and  finer  fed,"  verse, 

503. 
Advertisements,   the    best  part    of 

newspapers,  241. 
Agassiz,  Louis,  32,  39. 
Agiocochook,  414. 
"  Ah,  't  is    in    vain    the    peaceful 

din,"  verse,  18. 
Alewives,  39,  113,  11*. 
"All    things  are    current  found," 

verse,  512. 

Amesbury  (Mass.),  108,  110. 
Amonoosuck,  the,  414. 
Amoskeag  Falls,  322,  323,  417. 
Amoskeag  (N.  H.),   324,   325,   326, 

336,  339,  381. 
"An     early     unconverted     saint," 

verse,  53. 
Anacreon,     295-297 ;     translations 

from,  298-302. 
Andover  (Mass.),  155. 
Antiquities,  327,  330-332. 
Apprentices,  the  abundance  of,  160. 
"  Apple  tree,  Elisha's,"  470. 
Aristotle,  quoted,  165, 476. 
Armchairs  for  fishermen,  113. 
Arrow-head,  22. 
Art  and  nature,  419. 
Assabeth  River,  North  or,  4. 
Astronomy,  507-510. 
Atlantides,  The,  verse,  345. 
Aubrey,  John,  quoted,  139. 
Autumn,  the  coming  of,  441 ;  flow 
ers  of,  466-468 ;  498. 
Average  ability,  man's    success    in 

proportion  to  his,  166. 
"  Away  !     away  !    away  !    away  !  " 

verse,  231. 

Baboosuck  Brook,  287. 
Background,  all  lives  want  a,  57. 
Baker's  River,  108, 333. 
Ball's  Hill,  24,  46, 54. 
Bass- tree,  the,  207. 
Battle-ground,  first  of  the  Revolu 
tion,  18. 


Beach-plum,  the,  471. 
Beaumont,  Francis,  quoted,  86. 
Beaver  River,  115. 
Bedford  (Mass.),  4,  47  ;  petition  of 

planters  of,  63 ;  66,  77. 
Bedford  (N.  H.),  306,  307,  311,  312. 
Belknap,  Jeremy,  quoted,  113,  159, 

234,  249. 

Bellows,  valley  called  the,  235. 
Bellows  Falls  (Vt.),  113. 
Bells,  the  sound  of  Sabbath,  97. 
Bhagvat-Geeta,    the,   quoted,    175; 

pure  thought  of  the, 177  ;  beauty 

of  the,  184,  191. 

Bibles  of  several  nations,  the,  90. 
Billerica  (Mass.),  4,  39,  40,  44,  47, 

54 ;  age  of  the  town  of,  61 ;  64, 66, 

77,  148,  483. 
Biography,  autobiography  the  best, 

204. 

Biscuit  Brook,  469. 
Bittern,  the,  309. 
Boat,  T.  's,  15 :  hints  for  making  a, 

16. 

Boat-building,  283. 
Boatmen,  the  pleasant  lives  of,  273- 

280. 
Books,  the  reading  and  writing  of, 

115-140. 

Botta,  Paul  Emile,  quoted,  133, 162. 
Bound  Rock,  6. 
Bradford  (N.  H.),  469. 
Brahm,  the  bringing  to  earth   of. 

176. 

Brahman,  virtue  of  the,  182. 
Bream,  the,  30-32. 
Britannia's  Pastorals,  quoted,  151. 
Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  quoted,  86. 
Buddha  and  Christ,  85. 
Buried  money,  258. 
"  But  since  we  sailed,"  verse,  19. 
Buttrick's  Plain,  64. 

Calidas,  the  Sacontala,  quoted,  227 
Canaan  (N.  H.),  327. 
Canal,  an  old,  78. 


526 


INDEX 


Canal-boat,  appearance  of  a,  187 ; 

passing  a,  in  fog,  249;  later  and 

early  thoughts  about  a,  274-280 ; 

with  sails,  340. 
Cardinals,  22. 
Carlisle  Bridge,  24,  46. 
Carlisle  (Mass.),  4,  47,  63,  66. 
Carnac,  331. 

Cattle  Show,  the  Concord,  443-447. 
Channing,  W.  E.,  quoted,  53. 
Chateaubriand,  quoted,  171. 
Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  quoted,  365,  417, 

436  ;  in  praise  of,  483-494. 
Chelmsford  (Mass.),  66,  78, 101,  106, 

110,  114,  141, 333,  474,  483. 
Chivin,    Dace,    Roach,    or    Cousin 

Trout,  34. 
Christianity,  practical  and  radical, 

176. 

Classics,  study  of  the,  296. 
Coat-of-arms,  a  Concord,  9. 
Cohass  Brook,  311. 
Cohasset,  the  Indian,  311. 
Commerce,  278. 

Common  and  uncommon  sense,  511. 
Conantum,  462. 
Concord  (Mass.),  settlement  of,  3 ; 

historian  of,  quoted,  4  ;  6 ;  coat-of- 

arms  for,  9  ;  territory  of,  in  1831, 

10  ;   described  by    Johnson,    10 ; 

meadows,  11 ;  a  port  of  entry,  15  ; 

17  ;  poet,  a,  18 ;  45,  54, 62,  63,  77, 

79,  102,  155 ;  history  of,   quoted, 

156  ;   211 ;   Cliffs,  212  ;   282,  427  ; 

Cattle  Show  in,  443-447  ;  return 

to,  518. 
Concord  (N.  H.),  110,  111  ;  333,  382; 

entertained  in,  and  origin  of,  399, 

400. 

CONCOED  RlVEB,  3-13. 

Concord  River,  3  ;  course  of,  4  ;  gen 
tleness  of,  8  ;  12, 13,  23,  24,  78, 112, 
140 ;  a  canal-boat  on,  and  Fair 
Haven,  276-278;  Conaiituni  on 
the,  462  ;  reaching  the,  483. 

Confucius,  quoted,  357,  371. 

Connecticut  River,  the,  109,  111, 
113,  264,  327. 

Conscience,  the,  93,  172;  the  chief 
of  conservatives,  175. 

"  Conscience  is  instinct  bred  in  the 
house,"  verse,  94. 

Conservatism,  the  wisest,  174. 

Contoocook,  108. 

Cooking,  294. 

Coos  Falls,  307,  437. 

Coreopsis,  22. 

Cotton,  Charles,  quoted,  309. 

Cousin  Trout.     See  Chivin. 

Cranberry  Island,  6. 


Criticism,  496. 

Cromwell's    Falls,    110 ;     story    of 

Cromwell  and,  256. 
Crooked    River,  the  Souhegan,  or, 

287. 
Crusoe,  Robinson,  among  the  Arabs, 

Cultivation,  wildness  and,  68. 
Cupid  Wounded,  verse,  302. 
Custom,  the   grave  of,  170 ;  imme 
morial,  175. 

Dace.     See  Chivin. 

Daggers,  looking,  29. 

De  Mouts,  Sieur,  quoted,  53. 

Discovery,  inner,  505. 

Dogs,  barking  of  house-,  49. 

"Dong,   sounds    the    brass  in  the 

East,"  verse,  62. 

Donne,  Dr.  John,  quoted,  391,  441. 
Dracut  (Mass.),  101. 
Dreams,  149,  391. 
Drum,  sound  of  a,  by  night,  224. 
Dunstablc  (Mass.),  80,  142,  154,  155, 

160,  216,  217,  220, 258,  282  ;  history 

of,  218  ;  quoted,  141,  157. 
Dustan,  Hannah,  escape  with  nurse 

and  child  from  Indians,  422-427. 

Eel,  the  common,  the  lamprey,  38. 
Election  birds,  71. 
Eliot,  John,  102. 

Emerson,  quoted,  3, 18, 128, 129,  393. 
End  of  Nature's  creatures,  the,  293. 
Epitaphs,  221. 

Extemporaneous  living,  410. 
Eyes,  movement  of  the,  100. 

Fable,  the  universal  appeal  of,  72 ; 
the  Christian,  84. 

Fair  Haven,  a  canal  boat  on,  278. 

Farwell  of  Dunstable,  217-219,  258. 

Fisherman,  the,  26;  Account  Cur 
rent  of  a,  41. 

Fishes,  the  nature  of,  28. 

Fish-hawk,  the,  255. 

Flea,  deserts  made  by  bite  of  a,  259. 

Floating  in  a  skiff  as  if  in  mid-air,  60. 

Flowers,  autumn,  4G6. 

Fog,  early  morning,  233,  249 ;  pic 
turesque  effect  of,  250. 

Fox  Island,  54. 

Framingham  (Mass.), 4,   66. 

Franconia  (N.  H.),  111. 

Fresh-water  or  river  wolf,  36. 

Freshet  on  the  Merrimack,  469. 

FBIDAY,  441-518. 

Friends  and  Friendship,  341-381. 

Frontiers,  wherever  men  front,  400. 

Fuller,  Thomas,  quoted,  329,  511. 


INDEX 


527 


Gazetteer,  reading  the,  115 ;  quoted, 
256,  322,  323,  334-336. 

Genius,  order  in  the  development  of, 
407  ;  the  man  of,  432  ;  a  man  and 
his,  448. 

Gerardia,  the  purple,  22. 

Gesner,  Konrad  von,  quoted,  480. 

God,  T.'s  idea  of,  81,  82  ;  men's  im 
pertinent  knowledge  of,  88,  89  ; 
the  personality  of,  98. 

Goethe,  429-432  ;  quoted,  434-436. 

Golf's  Falls,  311. 

Goffstown  (N.  H.),  254,  323,  33G, 
341. 

Gookin,  Daniel,  quoted,  102,  141, 
210,218,332. 

Gower,  John,  quoted,  71, 151. 

Grape  Island,  54. 

Grass-ground  River,  3,  40. 

Graves,  Indian,  312. 

Graveyards,  monuments  and,  220. 

Great  Meadows,  the,  3,  20. 

"  Greece,  who  am  I  that  should  re 
member  thee,"  verse,  68. 

Griffith's  Falls,  320. 

Groton  (Mass.),  211. 

Hafiz,  quoted,  512. 

Half  lives,  how  the  other,  282. 

Hampstead  (N.  H.),  230,  250. 

Harebell,  the,  114. 

Hastings,  Warren,  quoted,  177,  178. 

Haverhill  (Mass.),  108,  109, 110,  111, 
230,  250 ;  historian  of,  quoted, 
399;  422. 

Haystack,  the,  107. 

Haze,  284. 

Heaven, 501-504. 

Heetopades  of  Veeshnoo  Sarma, 
191. 

Henry,  Alexander,  Adventures  of, 
283,  285-287  ;  Wawatam's  friend 
ship  with,  362. 

Herons,  514. 

Hesiod,  quoted,  79. 

Hibiscus,  23. 

History,  the  reading  and  the  an 
tiquity  of,  200-203. 

Homer,  121,  486. 

Hooksett  (N.  H.),279,  312,  323,339, 
340,  382,  383,  414;  Pinnacle, 
395 ;  Falls,  398. 

Hoosack  Mountain,  T.'s  ascent  of, 
235-248. 

Hopkinton  (Mass.),  4,  40. 

"  Horses  have  the  mark,"  verse, 
301. 

Horseshoe  Interval,  the,  157,  466. 

Hudson  (N.  H.),  188,  189,  191,  211. 

Huguenots  of  Staten  Island,  236. 


"I  am  a  parcel  of  vain  strivings 
tied,"  verse,  506. 

"  I  am  bound,  I  am  bound  for  a  dis 
tant  shore,"  verse,  2. 

"I  am  the  autumnal  sun,"  verse, 
499. 

"  I  hearing  get,  who  had  but  ears," 
verse,  460. 

"  I  make  ye  an  offer,"  verse,  86. 

"  I  sailed  up  a  river  with  a  pleasant 
wind,"  verse,  2. 

"  I  wish  to  sing  the  Atridse,"  verse, 
298. 

Iliad,  enduring  beauty  of  the,  120. 

"  In  vain  I  see  the  morning  rise," 
verse,  453. 

Indian,  crowding  out  of  the,  by 
whites,  66;  civilizing  the,  69; 
conversion  of  the,  102-106;  cap 
ture  of  two  Dunstable  men,  216 ; 
attacks,  letters  to  Governor  about 
expected,  288,  289  ;  captivity,  es 
cape  of  Hannah  Dustan  and 
others  from,  422-i27. 

Infidelity,  the  real,  96. 

Institutions,  the  burden  of,  169. 

Inward  Morning,  The,  verse,  388. 

Islands,  320. 

"  It  doth  expand  my  privacies," 
verse,  226. 

Jamblichus,  quoted,  229. 

Jesus  Christ,  effect  of  the  story  of, 
84  ;  prince  of  Reformers  and  Rad 
icals,  177. 

Johnson,  Edward,  quoted,  10. 

Jones,  Sir  William,  192. 

Josselyn,  John,  33,  36. 

Kearsarge,  107. 

Kreeshna,  teachings  of,  179-182. 

Ladies'  tresses,  22. 

Lamprey  eel,  38. 

Lancaster  (Mass.),  211. 

"  Lately,  alas,  1  knew  a  gentle  boy," 
verse,  343. 

Lawrence  (Mass.),  111. 

"  Let  such  pure  hate  still  under 
prop,"  verse,  379. 

Life,  the  world  and,  385-392. 

Lincoln  (Mass.),  6. 

Litchfield  (N.  H.),  253,  256,  282. 

Londonderry  (N.  H.),  115,  333. 

"  Love  once  among  roses,"  verse, 
302. 

"  Love  walking  swiftly,"  verse, 
300. 

"  Lovely  dove,"  verse,  299. 

Lovewell,  Captain,   and  his  Indian 


528 


INDEX 


fight,  154  ;  John,  father  of,    209  ; 

219. 

•'  Low-anchored  cloud,"  verse,  249. 
''Low  in  the  eastern  sky,"  verse, 

58. 
Lowell  (Mass.),  4,  39,  40,  49,  106, 

108,  110,   111,  144,  145,  279    280, 

311,  312,  328. 
Lyceum,  the,  127. 
Lydgate,  John,  quoted,  71. 

Mad  River,  108. 

Manchester  (N.  H.),   Ill,  279,   311, 

312  ;  Mfg.  Co.,  322  ;  323,  328,  333, 

341. 
"  Man's  little  acts  are  grand,"  verse, 

279. 

Massabesic  Lake,  111 ;  Pond,  311. 
Massachusetts,  T.'s  wish  not  to  be 

associated  with,  168. 
Mathematics,  477. 
McGaw's  Island,  303. 
Meadow  River,  Musketaquid  or,  9. 
Melon,  buying  a,  414. 


'Men  are  by  birth  equal  in  this, 
that  given,"  verse,  386. 

"  Men  dig  and  dive,  but  cannot  my 
wealth  spend,"  verse,  462. 

Mencius,  quoted,  347. 

Menu,  the  Laws  of,  192-200. 

Merrimack  (N.  H.),  279,  282,  311, 
437,  442,  483. 

Merrimack  River,  4, 9, 24, 77, 79, 100, 
101  ;  origin  and  course  of  the,  106- 
114 ;  140,  152,  187,  211,  212,  217, 
220,  224,  234,  248,  250,  252,  253  ; 
the  Gazetteer  quoted,  256 ;  260, 
261,  279,  280,  282,  288,  312,  322, 
323,  327,  334,  337,  383,  398,  427, 
438 ;  freshet  on  the,  469  ;  473,  483. 

Mice,  visited  by,  on  Hoosack  Moun 
tain,  244. 

Middlesex  (Mass.),  77,  100,  280, 
476. 

Mikania,  the  climbing,  55. 

Ministers,  on  Monday  morning,  153. 

Monadnock  Mountain,  216. 

MONDAY,  151-232. 

Monuments,  graveyards  and,  220  ; 
descendants  more  dead  than,  334. 

Moore's  Falls,  303. 

Moosehillock,  107. 

Morning,  impressions  of,  53. 

Music,  the  suggestions  of,  227-230. 

Musketaquid  or  Grass-ground  River, 
the,  3,  9. 

"  My  books  I  'd  fain  cast  off,  I  can 
not  read,"  verse,  397. 

"  My  life  has  been  the  poem  I  would 
have  writ,"  verse,  453. 


"  My  life  is  like  a  stroll  upon  the 

beach,"  verse,  317. 
"  My  love  must  be  as  free."  verse, 

369. 
Mythology,  ancient  history,  75. 

Names  of  places,  longing  for  Eng 
lish,  68. 

Nashua  (N.  H.),  108,  110,  111,  144, 
157,  188,  190,  211,  212,  215,  222, 
483 ;  river,  the,  463. 

Nashville  (N.  H.),  218,  222. 

Naticook  Brook,  282. 

Natural  life,  the,  500. 

Nature,  adorned,  23;  laws  of,  for 
man,  42 ;  indifference  of,  145 ; 
provisions  of,  for  end  of  her  crea 
tures,  293  ;  tame  and  wild,  417  ; 
and  Art,  419  ;  composing  her  poem 
Autumn,  498. 

"  Nature  doth  have  her  dawn  each 
day,"  verse,  375. 

"  Nature  has  given  horns,"  verse, 
300. 

Nesenkeag,  256. 

Nests,  fishes',  30. 

New  England  life,  the  Arcadian  ele 
ment  in,  318. 

New  Hampshire,  106  ;  for  the  An 
tipodes,  leaving,  189  ;  man,  a,  262; 
line,  crossing  the,  466. 

New  Testament,  the,  89-93;  177; 
practicalness  of,  182. 

Newbury  (Mass.),  108. 

Newburyport  (Mass.),  109,  111. 

Newfound  Lake,  108,  111. 

News,  getting  the,  from  ocean  steam 
ers,  314. 

Newspapers,  reading,  on  Hoosack 
Mountain,  241. 

Night,  thoughts  in  the,  438. 

Night-fall,  47-51 ;  146. 

Nine-Acre  Corner,  6. 

North  Adams  (Mass.),  235. 

North  Bridge,  18,  20,  41. 

North  or  Assabeth  River,  4. 

"  Now  chiefly  is  my  natal  hour," 
verse,  226. 

Observatory  on  Hoosack  Mountain, 

the,  244. 
"  Oft,  as  I  turn  me  on  my  pillow 

o'er,"  verse,  474. 
On  a  Silver  Cup,  verse,  298. 
On  Himself,  verse,  299. 
On  His  Lyre,  verse,  298. 
On  Love,  verse,  300. 
On  Lovers,  verse,  301. 
"  On  Ponkawtasset,   since   we  took 

our  way,"  versa,  20. 


INDEX 


529 


On  Women,  verse,  300. 

Oriental  and  Occidental,  the,  183; 

exclusion    of     the,    in     Western 

learning,    185 ;    quality    in    New 

England  life,  the,  319. 
Ossian,  453-459,  485. 
Otternic  Pond,  211. 
"  Our  uninquiring  corpses  lie  more 

low,"  verse,  281. 
Ovid,  quoted,  2,  283. 

"  Packed  in  my  mind  lie  all  the 

clothes,"  verse,  388. 
Pan  not  dead,  81. 
Pasaconaway,  332,  334. 
Past,  darkness  of  the,  204. 
Pawtucket  Falls,  the  lock-keeper  at, 

100  ;  Dam,  110  ;  Canal,  deepening 

the,  326. 

Pelham  (N.  H.),  115. 
Pembroke  (N.  H.),  154. 
Pemigewasset,   the,  106,    107,    110, 

412 ;  basin  on  the,  324. 
Penacook,   now    Concord    (N.  H.), 

founding  of,  399. 
Penichook  Brook,  222,  251,  463. 
Pennyroyal,  337. 
Perch,  the  common,  32. 
Persius  Flaccus,  Aulus,  405-412. 
Philosophy,  Asiatic,   175;    loftiness 

of  the  Oriental,  178. 
Physician,  priest  and,  338. 
Pickerel,  the,  36. 
Pickerel-weed,  22. 
Pigeons,  292. 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  the  best  sermon, 

89. 

Pindar,  quoted,  321. 
Pinnacle,  Hooksett,  394,  398. 
Pioneers,  old  and  new,  155. 
Piscataqua,  The,  250. 
Piscataquoag,  108,  322. 
Plaistow  (N.  H.),  230. 
Plum  Island,  107,  109,  260. 
Plutarch,  quoted,  228. 
"Ply    the    oars!    away!    away!" 

verse,  234. 

Plymouth  (N.H.),  110. 
Poet  and  poems,  the,  449-453  ;  494- 

497. 
Poetry,  the  nature  of,  116-122  ;  the 

mysticism  of  mankind,  433. 
Poet's  Delay,  The,  verse,  453. 
Political  conditions  and  news,  166. 
Polygonum,  22. 
Ponkawtasset,  20. 
Poplar  Hill,  20,  64. 
Pot-holes,  various,  324-327. 
Pout,  the  horned,  37. 
Practicalness,  the  triviality  of,  181. 


Priest,  physician  and,  338. 
Prose,  a  poem  in,  499. 
Pythagoras,  quoted,  418. 

Quarles,  Francis,  quoted,  15. 

Rabbit  Island,  141. 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter,  as  a  master  of 

style,  132. 
Read's  Ferry,  303. 
Reformers,  162. 
Religion  and  ligature,  80,  99. 
Rhexia,  the  Virginian,  22. 
Rice,  story  of  the  mountaineer,  264- 

273. 

River  wolf,  fresh-water  or,  36. 
Rivers  of  history,  the  famous,  12. 
Roach.     See  Chivin. 
Robin  Hood  Ballads,  quoted,  151, 

217. 

Romans,  vestiges  of  the,  328. 
Ross,  Sir  James  Clark,  quoted,  482. 
Ruff,  the,  30-32. 
Rumors    from     an    ^Eoliau   Harp. 

verse,  229. 

Saddleback  Mountain,  234. 

Sadi,  quoted,  87,  99, 401 ;  the  life  of, 
by  Dowlat  Shah,  quoted,  512. 

St.  Ann's  of  Concord  voyageurs, 
Ball's  Hill,  the,  24. 

Salmon,  39,  113. 114. 

Salmon  Brook,  208,  209,  463 ;  Love- 
well's  house  on,  426. 

"  Salmon  Brook,"  verse,  463. 

Sand,  tracts  of,  near  Nashua,  189 ; 
in  Litchfield,  N.  H.,  259,  260  ;  on 
Plum  Island,  260-262. 

Sanjay,  quoted,  184. 

Satire  and  poetry,  406-408. 

SATURDAY,  15-51. 

Savage  instinct,  the,  69. 

Scene-shifter,  the,  146. 

Science,  477-482. 

Scriptures  of  the  world,  187. 

"  Sea  and  land  are  but  his  neigh 
bors,"  verse,  346. 

Seeds,  the  use  of,  161. 

Shad,  39, 44  ;  train-band  nicknamed 
the,  41 ;  113,  114. 

Shadows,  464. 

Sheep,  alarm  of  a  flock  of,  393. 

Shelburne  Falls,  325. 

Sherman's  Bridge,  4. 

Shiner,  the,  35. 

Short's  Falls,  320. 

Silence,  515-518. 

"  Since  that  first  '  Away !  Away  1 ' » 
verse,  248. 

Skies,  the,  473. 


530 


INDEX 


Smith,  Capt.  John,  quoted,  114. 

Smith's  River,  108. 

Snake-head,  22. 

Soapwort  gentian,  the,  22. 

Society  Islanders,  gods  of,  69,  82. 

Soldier,  a  young,  413. 

"  Some  tumultuous  little  rill," 
verse,  77. 

Sophocles,  the  Antigone  of,  quoted, 
173. 

Soucook,  108. 

Souhegan,  108,  442 ;  or  Crooked 
River,  287. 

South  Adams  (Mass.),  238. 

Southborough  (Mass.),  4. 

Spenser,  Edmund,  quoted,  441. 

Springs,  river-feeding,  252. 

Squam  (N.  H.),  107,  108,  111. 

Squirrel,  the  chipping  or  striped, 
255 ;  the  red,  or  chickaree,  the 
Hudson  Bay,  256. 

Stark,  Gen.  John,  333. 

Staten  Island,  view  from,  236  ;  look 
ing  at  ships  from,  314. 

Sturgeon  River,  Merriniack  or,  106, 

"  Such  near  aspects  had  we,"  verse, 
314. 

"  Such  water  do  the  gods  distil," 
verse,  107. 

Suckers,  common  and  horned,  37. 

Sudbury  (Mass.),  4,  5,  6,  45,  66  ; 
early  church  of,  described  by 
Johnson,  11. 

Sudbury  River,  4. 

Suncook,  108. 

SUNDAY,  53-149. 

Sunday,  the  keeping  of,  79,  95. 

Sun-fish,  Bream,  or  Ruff,  the  fresh 
water,  30-32. 

Sunrise  on  Hoosack  Mountain,  246. 

Sunset,  513-515. 

Swamp,  the  luxury  of  standing  in  a, 
395. 

Swedenborg,  Emanuel,  85. 

Tansy,  23. 

"  That  Phaeton  of  our  Day,"  128. 

"  The   Good   how  can  we  trust  ?  " 

verse,  371. 

"  The  respectable  folks,"  verse,  8. 
"The   smothered  streams  of   love, 

which  flow,"  verse,  345. 
"The  waves  slowly  beat,"  verse,  284. 
"  The  western  wind  came  lumbering 

in,"  verse,  224. 
"  Then  idle  Time  ran  gadding  by," 

verse,  226. 
"  Then  spend  an  age  in  whetting  thy 

desire,"  verse,  138. 


"  There  is  a  vale  which  none  hath 
seen,"  verse,  229. 

"  Therefore  a  torrent  of  sadness 
deep,"  verse,  227. 

"This  is  my  Carnac,  whose  un 
measured  dome,"  verse,  331. 

Thoreau,  Henry  David,  started  on 
week's  river  journey,  15  ;  ascent 
of  Hoosack  Mountain,  235-248 ; 
experience  with  an  uncivil  moun 
taineer,  264-273;  invited  to  do 
various  sorts  of  work,  401  ;  began 
return  voyage,  415. 

Thoreau,  John,  brother,  lines  to,  2, 
15 ;  brings  Nathan,  a  country 
boy,  to  the  boat,  382. 

Thornton's  Ferry,  217,  282,  287. 

"Thou,  indeed,  dear  swallow," 
verse,  298. 

"  Thou  sing'st  the  affairs  of 
Thebes,"  verse,  299. 

"  Though  all  the  fates  should  prove 
unkind,"  verse,  189. 

"  Thracian  colt,  why  at  me,"  verse, 
301. 

THURSDAY,  393-439. 

"  Thus,  perchance,  the  Indian  hunt 
er,"  verse,  306. 

Time,  measurement  of  the  world's, 
428. 

To  a  Colt,  verse,  301. 

To  a  Dove,  verse,  209. 

To  a  Swallow,  verse,  298,  301. 

Traveling,  the  profession  of,  403. 

Trinity,  the,  88. 

"True  kindness  is  a  pure  divine 
affinity,"  verse,  342. 

Truth,  contact  with,  384. 

TUESDAY,  233-307. 

"Turning  the  silver,"  verse,  298. 

Turpentine  makers,  Indian  capture 
of,  216. 

Tyngsborough  (Mass.),  origin  of, 
141  ;  142,  147,  153,  158,  189,  212, 
216,  403,  466,  468,  472,  474. 

Unappropriated  Land,  the,  414. 
Uncannunuc,  211,  255,  336,  337,383, 

394,  398,  415. 
Uncivil  men,  263-273. 
Union  Canal,  the,  303. 

Varro,  quoted,  471. 
View,  the  point  of,  460. 
Virgil,  quoted,  116. 

Wachusett  Mountain,  211,  216. 
Walton  of  Concord  River,  the,  27. 
Wamesit,  102. 
Wannalancet,  333,  334. 


INDEX 


531 


Water-lily,  the  white,  23. 
Wawatara,  the  friendship  of,  362. 
Wayland  (Mass.),  4,  5,  6,  45,  46. 
"  We  see  theplunet  fall,"  verse,  481. 
WEDNESDAY,  309-392. 
Westborough  (Mass.),  4,  40. 
Westford  (Mass.),  141. 
"  What  dost  thou  wish  me  to  do  to 

thee  ?  "  verse,  301. 
"  Where  gleaming  fields  of  haze," 

verse,  290. 
"  Where'er  thou  sail'st  who  sailed 

with  me,"  verse,  2. 
White  Mountains,  the,  106,  111. 
"  Who  sleeps  by  day  and  walks  by 

night,"  verse,  51. 

Wicasuck  Island,  141,  143,  471,  472. 
Wilderness,  the  need  of,  223. 


Wildness  and  cultivation,  68. 
Williamstown  (Mass.),  238,  244. 
Willow,  the  narrow-leaved,  22  ;  the 

water,  55. 

Wiiidham(N.  H.),  115. 
Winnipiseogee,   106,   108,   111,  112, 

114. 
"With  frontier  strength  ye  stand 

your  ground,"  verse,  212. 
Wolff,  Joseph,  quoted,  74,  164. 
Wolofs,  the,  136,  172. 
"  Woof  of  the  sun,  ethereal  gauze," 

verse,  284. 
Work,  quiet,  137. 
Writing,  grace  and  power  in,  134- 

138. 

Yankees,  how  first  called,  66. 


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